Deceptive Appearances
by MillieW
Summary: Historic AU, takes place in the US in the mid 1800s. Charles Weasley is a man with many talents and one that could easily find a wife far more beautiful than Miss Granger. Yet she is the one he wants, the only question is – does she want him?
1. First Impressions

**First Impressions**

Charles Weasley was a man of opposites. He was a man often seen with a drink in his hand, but rarely drunk. He was a man never seen with a book in his hand, but still had an entire library in his house. He was a man that enjoyed every luxury that money could by, from the finest silk cravats to the best champagne, but that still never shied away from hard work.

Charles Weasley was also a man well known in his community for his harsh treatment of his slaves. He was a man who tolerated no mistakes and who didn't think twice about whipping a disobedient slave to death. His closest neighbours, the Malfoys, even used to joke about it and say that he probably enjoyed it, since he never let anyone else deal with that part of taking care of troublesome slaves.

The truth, of course, was that not a single slave ever had died in Charles Weasley's possession. Although that particular fact was something that not even the slaves themselves ever dared to talk about. It was certainly not a fact known to his peers and neighbours, who only knew him as the successful plantation owner, who snorted disdainfully every time a conversation turned to the subject of the fools up North who wanted to ban slavery.

What they never guessed, was that Charles Weasley didn't snort at the people arguing for a ban on slavery, but at those very peers and neighbours that held him in such esteem. Then again, neither of them had a clue that the very slaves they thought he killed every year were in truth smuggled to his brothers' trade company in New York where they were set free. This truth was just another of those many little details that the community around Charles Weasley did not know about. In fact not even everyone involved in the smuggling knew what was going on. It seemed safer that way, for all involved.

This particular part of his trading was the reason that he had just spent three days in New York, and hence why he had decided to go up to Boston to visit the rest of his family, his parents, his youngest brother and his sister. And it was when in his family home that he first met her, Miss Hermione Granger.

Miss Granger was in many ways the essence of a lady. Or at least she seemed that way to Charlie when she walked through the door accompanied, as was the custom, by her parents. Greeting her the way that was expected of him, Charlie took the opportunity to take a good look at the pretty woman in front of him as she entered the drawing room. Her dress was a pale shade of blue that became her very well. Latest fashion of course, he wouldn't have expected anything less from a woman of her stature. Her hands were clad in pretty lace gloves, protecting them from sunlight. Charlie deduced she probably had a parasol to match the outfit as well, making sure that no part of her skin was ever kissed by the sun. He was not impressed.

Being a wealthy man in his best years, Charlie was used to women, far more beautiful than Miss Granger, swarming around him. Miss Granger may be pretty but she seemed too much a lady for Charlie's taste. After all, his experience of ladies, which was quite extensive, told him that a lady such as Miss Granger served as a very dull and uninspiring company. Then again, Charlie was the first to admit that he respected very few women, his mother and his sister being the only two respectable enough to show in decent society.

Not that Charles Weasley didn't like women, he did very much; he just couldn't stand ladies. His experience was that the women that were ladylike either had abhorrent views on important matters, or even worse – no opinions at all save for the ones the man most likely to become their husband had. As far as Charlie was concerned, views formed to please a man weren't real views and in his mind there were few things that were worse than caring so little about what happened around you that you didn't even form an opinion of the matter. Being a woman was in no way excuse you from the responsibility to care about the world.

Sitting down, he went through the routines, answering her parents' questions, presenting himself as the perfect gentleman, in short he did all the things that he had learned he was supposed to do, while not spending any amount of time thinking about doing it. It was something he'd acquired a knack for over the years, pretending while letting his mind wander. Today it was wandering towards the only interesting thing he could find about the young woman seated in front of him – the lock of hair that was trying to fight its way out of her elaborate hairstyle.

The longer she sat there, quietly sipping her tea, her lace-clad hands neatly folded in her lap, the stronger Charlie felt that, that lock, so stubbornly fighting its entrapment, was the only redeeming thing about Miss Granger.

"So what brings you to Boston, Mr. Weasley?" Mrs. Granger asked, exactly at the moment she was supposed to.

"I had some business to take care of with my brothers in New York, and I always stop in Boston to see my family when I'm up north," Charlie answered, giving the woman one of the charming smiles that always seemed to win the hearts of mothers.

"And may I ask, Mr. Weasley, exactly what kind of business it is you do for a living?" Mr. Granger asked him curiously.

Shooting off another one of his charming smiles, if only to prevent himself from telling the man that 'no, that was not something he may ask', Charlie took another sip of his tea before answering.

"I deal with cotton, Mr. Granger. I have a plantation down south, a short distance from Charleston. Quite a successful one, if I may say so myself," he added, knowing that that it was the last part that would truly interested the man in front of him. He wasn't surprised when the man gave him a big smile in return.

"A plantation? Do you have slaves too, Mr. Weasley? Do you profit from the pain of others?" Charlie almost choked on his tea at the harsh words from the young woman in front of him. Staring at her he tried to remember if a woman ever had talked to him in such a way before.

"Hermione!" It was her mother's voice that snapped him back to reality. "When will you learn to behave like a lady? Offending Mrs Weasley's son when you are a guest in–"

"Mrs Granger, I assure you I was not offended," Charlie quickly injected, thinking he should at least say something.

"What a kind thing to say, Mr Weasley," Mrs Granger said, her voice suddenly as soft as the cotton he grew. Charlie plastered a smile on his face to avoid frowning at the difference from her voice as she addressed her daughter. "But surely you must have been," she added firmly.

"We are most terribly sorry, Mr Weasley," Mr Granger cut in. "Our daughter is a lovely young lady, but she get these…ideas…sometimes. Silly little things, really–"

"Slavery is not a silly little thing, father," Hermione interrupted. "Men talk about it all the time!" she added, and Charlie had to stifle a laugh as he watched her father's face grow red. Suddenly this visit had become a lot more interesting.

"As I said, ideas!" he said apologetically while his wife gave their daughter a stern look. "A perfect example of why women shouldn't be involved in public life. I must admit I have faltered in that area sometimes, giving Hermione a little too much room. Women are so easily affected by what they hear," he finished with a smile.

"I'm sure your faults have not been that great, Mr Granger," Charlie assured him. "It's rather refreshing to meet with new ideas, after all," he said, smiling honestly for the first time since the Grangers entered their drawing room. "Not everyone can afford to speak so freely," he finished with another smile, this time directed at Hermione.

She, however, didn't seem as impressed. "Is that a nicer way to tell me that I should know my place and hold my tongue?" she asked sharply.

"Hermione, that is enough!" her mother shouted agitated. Too agitated for anyone to hear Charlie's assurance that truly that had not been what he had meant. It was his own mother that sorted the situation by promptly changing the subject, although Charlie silently wished that she hadn't. He'd much preferred the company of the agitated young woman Miss Granger had been before, than the calm, collected lady that was now taking her place. Yet she continued to fascinate him. Like the lock of hair fighting its restraints, apparently she too found the confinement of her role as a lady and a future bride a little restricting. By the time the visit was over and the Grangers were leaving, Charlie had formed a plan.

He would see her again – in an environment that was far less controlled. With a smile playing in the corners of his lips he grabbed his sister's arm and guided her hand to the crook of his arm as he asked her if Miss Granger was a close friend to her. His smile widened at his sister's nod. Leaning in to keep his plans from their parents he whispered a few instructions in Ginny's ear, knowing she'd be too attracted by the mischief in them to be able to resist.

The following afternoon, Charlie was in quite a good mood. He whistled as he changed out of the clothes he'd worn for a stroll in the town and changed into something more suitable for the afternoon. Green he decided, as it complimented his read hair and freckled complexion the best.

It was with a wide smile he said waved goodbye to his mother as she left the townhouse for visits to the neighbours and with a wider smile still he promised to look out for Ginny, now when his poor sister wasn't feeling well enough to join her on her visits.

Ginny seemed almost as exited about the plans as Charlie did, and when the maid announced that Miss Granger had arrived to see Miss Weasley, Charlie winked at her as he left the room temporarily.

"Ginny, how are you feeling?" he could hear her voice as she stepped into the room.

"Fine, why wouldn't I?" Ginny asked happily. Charlie imagined the young woman stopping in her movements, watching her friend with surprise.

"Your note, it said you weren't feeling well. That you wanted my company," she said surprised.

"And how else do you think I would get out of this afternoon's social calls, not to mention get you out of yours," Ginny said, and Charlie was quite sure she was smiling.

"Oh Ginny Weasley – that is lying!" Hermione's voice was heard saying sharply. "And I absolutely adore you for it," her voice continued, broken up by a giggle. Charlie smiled, as he waited just a bit longer – long enough for their conversation to get started, then he left his place and stepped through the door.

"Miss Granger, how lovely to see you again," he said gracefully, while walking up to her. With a slight bow he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

"I'm surprised that you'd think so, Mr Weasley," Hermione answered, pulling her hand back. "After yesterday's meeting, I'd rather think you'd want to avoid my company," she added, her lips not even beginning to return his smile.

Charlie frowned slightly as she turned her back on him. He wasn't used to women not responding to his looks and charm. Then again, he wasn't a man that didn't appreciate a challenge, and Miss Granger was apparently set on being one. His smile back in place, Charlie took his seat in the chair next to her.

"I would say that that would be jumping to conclusions," he said casually. "After all, you never really gave me a chance to explain myself yesterday," he added.

"I think you explained yourself rather well," Hermione responded.

"Actually I did not," Charlie answered her with a grin. "Or rather I did, but you chose to misinterpret my views," he added. She did not look impressed, but at least she didn't interrupt him. Folding her hands in her lap she simply waited for him to go on. "My comment about having the freedom to speak was not directed at you as a wish for you to hold your tongue, but rather at myself in a wish that my tongue could be as free as yours, Miss Granger," Charlie explained calmly, leaning back in his chair when he finished.

"And what would keep you from speaking your mind, Mr Weasley? You are a man, after all," Hermione replied.

"Not everything is about being men and women, Miss Granger. I'd say it has more to do with where you are from," Charlie explained, treading carefully as he spoke – not wanting her to think that he approved of slavery, but unable to tell her the – highly illegal – business he was in. After a quick deliberation with himself he found it cleverest not to mention his own slaves at all. "If I were to speak my mind as freely as you did yesterday, my health, my finance, my standard in society, might very well be threatened – as could in the worse case scenario my life," he continued. "Life isn't always easy down south, Miss Granger. Especially when it comes to views on slavery – there you either agree with the majority or pretend to agree with them while holding your views to yourself."

"I can't see why anyone would want to live in a place like that, then," Hermione replied simply.

"There are other things that are important, Miss Granger. Things that can make certain sacrifices worth taking. Like the way the earth smells after a rain, or the way the evening sounds after sunset – the south is a beautiful place, Miss Granger. And there is a lot of hospitality, a wonderful nature, a simplicity to life that you cannot get here up north," Charlie answered her honestly. He wasn't sure if his words would be enough to convince her, but he still couldn't help but feel a jolt of victory in his stomach when he saw her harsh expression soften somewhat.

"So what category would you fall into, Mr. Weasley," she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Category, Miss Granger?" he asked for a moment unsure of what she spoke of.

"You did say there were two categories of people where you live, did you not, Mr. Weasley?" she asked with a slight smile, her expression one he would imagine she would have had she caught the cat with its nose in the cream. "Which one would you be? The one agreeing with majority or the one too scared to speak one's mind?"

Charlie nearly laughed out loud, the question so cleverly worded that he would be in a bad light no matter what he answered. "According to that definition I would be found among the spineless cowards not daring to speak their minds, Miss Granger," he answered, pleased when she couldn't hold back a laugh of her own at his answer.

Time passed far too quickly, and before he had barely started talking to her, Hermione stood up and bade her farewells, thanking Ginny ever so much for the welcome distraction to her routine. For Charlie seeing her leave was a nuisance, but one he could rectify quite simply. Taking the stairs two at the time to his room, he wrote a note, announcing his visit with the Grangers the following afternoon. It might not be as good as being able to talk to her outside their parents' presence, but at least it was better than nothing – and Charlie was not about to let the opportunity slip.


	2. At Second Glance

**At Second Glance**

Hermione Granger wasn't a woman that was easily impressed. She found most young men pretentious and tedious, just as they found her obnoxious and opinionated – at least after she opened her mouth in more than polite conversation.

She had seen it many times in her life. A man watching her, courting her even – until she showed him who she was, told him her opinions. They rarely were very interested after that, and if they were, there were usually talk of taming or controlling her – like that horrible Mr Smith last year. Even her father would see the disaster such a union could create, and so those courtships, too, tended to be short-lived. Her parents had spent many hours worrying, even more trying to talk some sense into her – telling her that while opinions were nice, they weren't a luxury an unmarried woman in her early twenties could afford.

"You can have as many opinions as you want once you've found a husband, dear," her mother told her. Hermione knew better. She knew that any man that couldn't live with a woman that had her own views prior to their marriage, wouldn't be able to live with her having views after they were married either. To Hermione the notion that such a marriage could in any way be a happy one, escaped her. Besides, as much as she tried to please her parents, she couldn't help her tongue from slipping, from saying the things she thought before she even knew she thought them.

Still, she didn't like to disappoint her parents like she had the other day, and she had certainly noticed the disappointment in them the moment they left the Weasleys'. She knew her parents had had great hope for finding a good husband for her – just as she knew they had hoped that husband might just be a part of the Weasley family.

They had been disappointed when the oldest one moved south to marry some French woman she couldn't remember the name of and when one of the middle ones – Percy – had married Miss Clearwater. It had been a perfect choice giving his aspiration in politics and the Clearwater family's good connections in Washington, but a disappointment to Hermione's parents, nevertheless.

By the time the twins left town, after too many affairs with too many loose women for their reputation to survive, not to mention an especially tenacious rumour about Mr Fred Weasley and the young black maid that lived with the two young men, her parents had pinned their hope to the youngest Mr Weasley, Ronald, or Ron, whom also was the one Weasley save for Ginny that Hermione actually felt close to. For several months when she was younger, she, herself, had actually nurtured a hope of a future marriage between them. Life, however, had wanted things to turn out differently, and Hermione hadn't felt the slightest disappointment when Ron had asked Miss Abbott from the neighbouring street to marry him instead.

Her parents, however, had been very saddened, and it didn't help their feeling of despair, that the only other young man that actually knew and appreciated Hermione for who she was – the young, rich, and well-known Mr Potter – around the same time asked Ginny to marry him. The fact that Hermione didn't want to marry either young man, didn't stop her parents from feeling highly disgruntled at the turn of events.

The arrival of the only available and suitable Weasley that was left, had given her parents new hope, and she was well aware that they had pinned high hopes on her behaviour for their introduction. She, however, had – as always – ended up speaking first and thinking later. She didn't regret what she had said, but she did regret disappointing her parents. But then again, Mr Weasley hadn't seemed at all thrown off by her behaviour when she saw him yesterday. Running the silver brush she was holding through her hair she frowned. She really couldn't understand him at all.

The day before yesterday he had seemed the perfect gentleman, polite, charming – boring. Yesterday he had been different somehow. Relaxed, joking, a hint of a smile playing in the corners of his lips even when he wasn't actually smiling. He'd even gone as far as let her call him a coward without it seeming to bother him the slightest. He'd rather seemed amused. Also, Ginny seemed very fond of him, as a person as well as a brother. Still he lived in the south, and owned a cotton plantation – and she'd never heard of anyone doing that without owning slaves. A smile and a joke would not make up for that.

Sighing, Hermione ran the brush through her hair again, without even noticing her hair becoming wilder instead of calmer with each stroke. Her like or dislike of Mr Weasley wouldn't matter anyway, she decided quickly. He would go back to his life in the south in a matter of days, and surely there were more interesting women to meet when he was up here than her. Probably she wouldn't even see him again. She wasn't all that pretty and even if he against all odds found her opinionated mind an amusement, he would surely not be interesting in wasting his time on someone like her.

"Miss Hermione, _your hair!_"

Hermione blinked and looked up at the angry face of the black woman standing behind her, and then at her hair, by now brushed so wild it would take forever to tame.

"I'm sorry Sally," she blurted quickly, blushing at her mistake.

"Oh, Miss Hermione, you are hopeless sometimes," the black woman complained, grabbing the brush from her and taking a steady grip of her hair as she began sorting out the mess Hermione had made. "How in the lords good name am I ever to sort this out, My Lady?"

"Don't call me that, Sally!" Hermione said sharply.

"Then what do you suppose I should call you, Miss Hermione?" Sally said impatiently. "Queen of Sheba, perhaps?"

"How about Hermione!" Hermione replied. "I call you Sally, after all," she added when the woman behind her frowned.

"Miss Hermione, you know something like that just would not due. Now stop with that silliness and sit still so that I can get your hair in order."

"Then I shall call you Mrs Thomas instead," Hermione said plainly, folding her arms across her chest. Disgruntled, she saw Sally roll her eyes at her.

"Miss Hermione, could you please – for your parents' sake if not for mine – stop with that nonsense for today at least? It's very important to your mother that you're on your best behaviour today, and your hair is grief enough for one day!"

"What's so important about today," Hermione asked, surprised at the older woman's nervous tone. Sally was usually much calmer than this.

"You're having a visit from Mr Weasley, didn't your mother tell you?" Sally answered, biting her lower lip as she tried to restrain Hermione's impossible hair.

"What?" Hermione said, jerking her head up in surprise, causing Sally to lose the grip on her hair. "Which Mr Weasley?" she quickly added, when Sally grabbed her head and painfully pushed it back in position.

"Mr Charles Weasley, and your mother made it perfectly clear that you need to look your best and you would do your parents' a horrible injustice if you did not try to act like a–"

"They didn't!" Hermione exclaimed, turning around completely on her chair making Sally yell out in frustration as she dropped her hair again. Hermione, however, ignored her. "I can't believe my parents would do something like that! Are they _that_ desperate to marry me off? That they would invite someone they hardly know, just to present me like some, some–"

"_Miss_ _Hermione! Do hold your parents in higher esteem than that, young lady_!" Sally interrupted her angrily, as always stubbornly refusing to hear the slightest ill about her employers. "Your parents did _not_ invite the young Mr Weasley here today. _He_ sent a formal request asking for the permission to call on _you_ today! If you do not appreciate the action I'm sure you can give your father your objections later, but _you will behave like a lady!_" she said, grabbing her shoulders and promptly turning her back around on the stool. Another painful jerk to her head and Hermione was back in her original position, staring at Sally through the mirror.

"He called on _us_?" she asked quietly, her mind racing as she tried to figure out why Mr Weasley would want to see them.

"No, he called on _you_, Miss Hermione! Apparently you did not manage to put him off the last time you met. A wonder I'd say, so please be on your best behaviour this afternoon," Sally said.

Hermione looked at the woman behind her, glad the older woman wasn't looking back or she would have seen the slight flush to Hermione's face. Hermione knew yesterday's meeting with Mr Weasley was unusual and hardly abided by the rules of proper behaviour for a young unmarried woman. So far Hermione hadn't even told her mother about the lengthy conversation she'd had with Mr Weasley when she was over to visit Ginny. Yet she wondered what he wanted from her. She had thought that yesterday's meeting was a coincidence; that he'd been bored and heard her and Ginny chat from the hallway. Now, with him calling on them – _her _– today, it seemed too much of a coincidence for it to actually be one.

But that left the question of what he wanted. Hermione frowned and bit her lip. She had been utterly herself the day before, and far more herself, than her parents had wished her to be, the day before that. And yet he called on her. _Why_ No man, save Harry or Ron, had ever thought her opinionated mind to be anything less than annoying, and not even Harry or Ron had ever called on her in this fashion. Only men that didn't really knew her had ever done that. Besides, when you considered it, both Harry and Ron were engaged to women far less opinionated and hot-headed than herself. Well at least Ron was. She sometimes wondered if Harry really knew just how hot-headed Ginny could be when she wanted too. But then he was Ron's best friend so he probably did.

"Miss Hermione, it's time to put on your clothes."

Hermione jerked her head as she heard Sally impatiently calling on her attention. Casting a quick glance in the mirror, she wondered how Sally had managed to get her hair in such order so quickly. With a smile she got up and let Sally slip the corset around her waist and start lacing it up. Frowning when she felt her breath being pushed out of her body, she groaned in protest, earning herself another reprimand from Sally. Rolling her eyes she wondered if it ever took men this long to get dressed and ready to be seen.

Still, she couldn't help but to be pleased with the results. The crimson fabric of the dress Sally picked out, went well with her complexion, and Sally had – amazingly enough – once more managed to tame her hair into a hairstyle of controlled corkscrew curls that hung from the back of her head and left her face alone, unlike the usual unruly wild curls that Hermione knew would claim their victory before the evening was over.

Thanking Sally, Hermione took a breath as deep as her corset would allow her as she left the room and walked down to the drawing room where she knew her parents would be waiting. Her greeting to her parents were, however, stuck in her throat when she saw Mr Weasley already sitting in a chair chatting with her parents, his presence one she hadn't expected for another hour at least, seeing how this was a far earlier hour than was the custom for such visits. Flushing slightly, and far too easily for her own comfort, Hermione watched him look at her for a moment that was just a tad too long for propriety, before he broke into a wide smile and rose to greet her.


	3. Ends and Beginnings

**Ends and Beginnings**

Charlie frowned as he bent down over the paper in front of him, putting the quill in the ink-pot to rest while he read what he had written. He wasn't overly pleased, but he surmised it would have to do.

Letters had never been his strong suite – at least not these types of letters. Business notes, invitations, requests, he could do with the style and grace they required. He had nice handwriting and always made sure to use the best quality paper. This, however, was something different. These mattered, probably more than any other letters he had ever written in his life.

When he had seen her enter the room that early afternoon, he'd nearly fallen from the chair. True, he had noticed that she was pretty already the previous times they'd met, and true, he had seen many young women prettier than her, but when she wore that crimson colour, Hermione Granger's whole look changed somehow. It was as if the colour made her skin shimmer and glow, and combined with the slight flush of her cheeks and the natural golden streaks in her hair, she'd looked stunning.

After staring at her for what must have been longer than was proper, Charlie had finally collected himself enough to rise and greet her as befitted a gentleman to greet a lady. Brushing his lips against her hand, he'd felt a tingle run through him as the softness of her skin had come in contact with his lips, a reaction that for Charlie had been both unusual and a bit unnerving.

Charlie had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to hold a casual conversation with both Miss Granger and her parents –a task that was harder than he had imagined when he first sat down to write the formal request to pay her a visit. Almost immediately he had started to regret not finding a way to speak to her without her parents being present.

While talking to Mr Granger about his booming business – a task difficult in itself, seeing how he couldn't disclose the true nature of some of his business, as well as not even remotely hinting at having slaves – Charlie had also tried to interest both Miss Granger and her mother in the beauty of the south. That task, too, had proven to be much more difficult than he had anticipated.

While her mother had seemed increasingly pleased with anything and everything he'd told her, Miss Granger had seemed rather indifferent to everything he'd said. Not that she hadn't made polite conversation – saying exactly the right thing at the right time, politely asking him to elaborate this, or explain that. It was just that she hadn't been the same girl that had vehemently argued against slavery, or told him he was a coward, or laughed at his sometimes slightly improper jokes. There had been something missing. A fire perhaps. The glint in her eyes that he had seen when something interested her. Not knowing quite how to handle the situation, Charlie had talked about anything and everything, hoping to find some subject that would please Miss Granger as much as it did her mother.

He had mentioned his library only in passing – too accustomed to never speaking of his reading habits with anyone, to consider it a suitable topic for discussion. Fortunately, Miss Granger had been very eager to discuss the topic and completely forgotten propriety when she simply interrupted him to reassure herself that he actually had mentioned a library. Her mother's reprimands at her behaviour had hardly been heard, as Charlie quickly had seized the opportunity and diverted the conversation to the library and the books within. Before long, they had both been deeply emerged in conversations that covered classic literature, new authors and their promise, poetry versus prose, if some books should be forbidden or not. For Charlie, who never discussed either reading habits or literature, this had been uncharted territory, but also something he had greatly enjoyed, even when Miss Granger's parents had seemed a little worried about the heat and fire of their discussion. The two had, however, adapted and had soon pretended that such a lively conversation between their daughter and a man they had only really encountered for the first time two days earlier, was completely within socially acceptable standards.

Before he had left that day, Charlie had made sure to find out where the Grangers would pay visit the following day, and for the following three days he had made sure he appeared promptly wherever they were, making sure to take the opportunity to see Miss Granger as often as he could. The two of them would smile and talk with the guests and the hosts, and before the afternoon had passed, withdraw into a quiet corner of whichever drawing room they were in, to talk in private, both ignoring the knowing glances and smiles from the people around them.

Without him even noticing, Charlie's four day visit in Boston had turned into a week, and for every day that had passed, Charlie had postponed the thought of going home further. By the time Charlie was allowed to take Miss Granger out for walks on the town, only accompanied by Ginny and her fiancé, Harry, the thought of going back home had seemed more like a nuisance than anything else.

Harry had quickly proved a valuable asset in getting to know Miss Granger better. Not only did he know her well and had served as a good source of information about the things Ginny couldn't understand, but in his desire to spend time alone with Ginny, the two had often fell behind in their walks, or let Charlie and Miss Granger do the same, leaving the two of them alone to speak to each other undisturbed. Of course, Charlie had never let Harry and Ginny fall too far behind, or walk too far ahead. He had no desire to let any rumours about either his sister or Miss Granger start circulating. Rumours could be damaging. Charlie knew that well since his brothers' slightly less than voluntary move to New York. Not that their move hadn't been a gift for the more illegal part of Charlie's business. Trusting people when dealing with runaway slaves was always hard, and having your own brothers as your main confidents removed many problems and risks.

As the days had progressed, the time when Charlie needed to go home had come ever closer. As one week turned into two, Charlie had known he couldn't put it off any longer. There was simply too much at stake, too many people dependent on his presence back home. With reluctance he had realised that while two weeks was too short a time – it was also too long.

They had been walking together for an hour, her hand tucked comfortably in the crook of his arm, when Charlie finally brought it up, reluctantly telling her that he would have to leave Boston and return to Charleston. She had stopped short when the words were spoken; looking straight ahead as she slowly nodded her head.

"You have a plantation to run," she'd said with a slight smile that showed her disappointment far more than any frown ever could have. Charlie knew that he probably shouldn't have been quite as happy about her displeasure as he was, but at the time, the fact that she seemed disappointed by the news, had brought him more joy than he had expected.

"I do," he had answered her calmly as they started to walk again, once more feeling a deep wish to tell her the real reason he had to leave. He had skilled workers and good supervisors, and Bill lived close enough to handle things in his absence – had his business only been in cotton, there had been nothing that could have stopped him from staying longer. Running slaves through the Underground Railroad, however, needed his full attention. Lives were at stake, and as much as he trusted Bill, he knew his brother couldn't run that part of his business. Too many contacts would deal with him alone, too many details were only in his head. It wasn't as if he could have simply written to his brother to tell him the finer details of the operations either. Any letter could have been intercepted and read by the wrong people. Any letter could have meant the death of too many people.

"I would prefer to stay," he'd said, after they'd walked silently for a while, watching the backs of Ginny and Harry a short distance ahead of them.

"But you can't," she'd filled in, her voice not completely steady.

"No, I can't," he'd confirmed. "Too many people depend on me for me to be selfish," he'd finished.

He'd felt her eyes linger on him, but hadn't returned her gaze – worried that if he let himself look to deeply into her eyes, he'd lose his resolve and stay yet another week.

"So when will you leave?" she'd asked when he didn't look at her.

"This weekend, I'm afraid," he'd answered.

"So soon?" she'd said surprised, once more stopping short, the fabric of her yellow dress ruffling as a result. "But that's only two days away!"

Covering her lace-clad hand with his, Charlie had turned around to face her, hoping that he could keep his resolve.

"Miss Granger," he'd started. "I want you to know that these past weeks have been of more joy to me than I imagined when I first came back to Boston, and I would be lying if I didn't say that that is all your doing. Had I not met you, I would have returned home long ago – now, I wish I didn't have to go back at all," he'd gone on, watching her face flush.

"Mr Weasley, there is no need… I do understand that you have a business to run, and I did hardly expect you to stay forever–"

"May I write to you," he'd interrupted her. A smile he hadn't been able to stop had spread across his face as she'd nodded her consent – and while he had enjoyed her company greatly during the two weeks he'd spent with her, he had never wanted to kiss her more than he had in that one moment. Knowing he couldn't, he'd nodded, tucked her hand safely back into the crook of his arm, and beckoned her to start walking again.

They'd walked in silence on their way back to the Granger home, neither knowing what to say. When they arrived, Charlie said his goodbyes to Mr and Mrs Granger, explaining to them that he had to leave. They had, as expected, been disappointed, but still insisted that if he were to leave so soon, he would spend the following afternoon and evening at their home, having tea and dinner. Knowing they wouldn't take no for an answer, Charlie had agreed, feeling more than a bit disgruntled about not being able to spend his last real day in Boston alone with Miss Granger.

That had been two months ago. Two months, an eternity – was there a difference? Two slave runs had been made, one per month – more than usual but far too few anyway. There were so many he wanted to send, but the risks were high and Fred and George couldn't arrange accommodation for too many and another recipient wasn't something he wanted. Besides, it was the busiest time of year for most farmers now, and the slaves were in higher demands than ever. Running slaves was always a costly business, but even more so this time of year than any other. Charlie simply couldn't afford to do more at the moment.

Still, his mind was far less concerned with business, and far more concerned with the letter that he was attempting to write at the moment. Just as his mind had been on Miss Granger and the letters he wrote to or received from her for the past two months. With a frown, he decided that he wouldn't be able to make the text any better by fretting over it. Folding it neatly, he placed it in the envelope, sealed it with wax and his seal and put it in the basket for outgoing mail. He then proceeded to folding up Miss Granger's latest letter and placing it in the ribbon tied pile that held her previous ones. Running his fingers lightly over the paper, he took the pile and placed it in the drawer of his desk before ringing the bell for the housekeeper.

A few moments later, an elderly woman with strong features and stern looks entered the room. She was rather thin, but did in no way look fragile or week. With a straight back and attentive gaze she looked exactly as you would have expected a housekeeper of a large house in the south to look – like someone who was in control, who knew what you wanted before you asked, and who would make sure you got whatever it was without you ever knowing the trouble behind it. When she entered, Charlie had his back turned to the door, but she didn't need to speak up for him to know she was there.

"Tell Kingsley to get my horse ready, please. I'm going out to the fields," Charlie said, drumming his fingers on the desk absentmindedly, as he gazed through the big French windows to the garden outside.

"I assume you'll need a change of clothes then too, sir," the woman said plainly, awakening Charlie from his daydream. Looking down on his finely tailored clothes and silk shirt, Charlie smiled and turned to give his housekeeper a nod.

"I'll tell Eve to get a suitable outfit ready for you," the woman said, smiling politely.

"No, that won't be needed, Hetta," Charlie interjected quickly, thinking of the last time Eve had handled his clothes, leaving three of his finest silk shirts with burn holes from a too heated iron. The girl really was a disaster in the house, giving him a problem he had never foreseen having.

He'd bought the young girl only a few months ago, and he had originally intended to send her along with the last group of slaves that left for freedom in New York. However, being confronted with her utter lack in house-keeping skills, Charlie had been forced to let go of that thought. A young woman like Eve couldn't be sent to New York without skills. She'd be completely unable to hold down a job, and with no job she would be an easy target for people with less than honourable intentions. Charlie was always more careful when sending women through the Railroad than he was when sending men, and with a girl like Eve, it could never go well. So, he'd kept her and told Hetta to teach the girl what she needed to know about housekeeping, hoping that she'd learn fast so that he could send her on to work in a respectable family in the north soon. The only problem with this plan was the number of inedible dinners, broken vases and, of course, burnt clothes that he had been forced to live with since her arrival.

"It's really no problem. I can take care of my clothing myself," Charlie added, trying to appease the woman in front of him.

Hetta, however, did not look at all appeased. "If you say so, sir," she answered, her voice telling him exactly what she thought of this new way of doing things. In spite of her constantly scolding and nagging Eve about her many mistakes, the elder woman was quite fond of the young girl, and highly protective of her at that. Any criticism of the clumsy and sloppy work was to be Hetta's own, and if anyone – and this very much included Charlie – offered criticism, Hetta would be the first to defend her.

Watching his housekeeper, Charlie sighed. The woman may be older and a whole lot thinner than his mother, but when they got that look in their eyes, they were about as easy to say no too.

"Do it your way," he said, resigned to the fact that it now would take much longer than he intended to get out on the fields, leaving him with a lot more time to dwell on the fact that he was here, while Miss Granger was far north in Boston.

Slowly ascending the stairs, Charlie scowled at his inability to come up with a solution to this problem. He was a good problem solver – more often seeing solutions than the problems themselves. This problem, however, much like the problem Eve provided him with, was one he couldn't come up with a solution to.

As he quickly exchanged the silk shirt Eve had laid out for him, to a simpler cotton one, of the type he always used when he was working, Charlie dressed himself quickly. Casting only a quick look in the mirror, he grabbed his whip and headed outside to where Kingsley was impatiently waiting with his horse.

As he took the brown mare from the large black man, Charlie thanked Kingsley for his patience and swung up on the horse's back and hung his whip on the saddle in front of him.

Charlie gave the mare an affectionate pat on her neck and urged her to start walking. With a few more urges, the mare soon had entered a comfortable trot. Charlie took a deep breath and smiled. He knew many of his peers and neighbours preferred stallions to mares and generally considered mares as horses for ladies. Charlie didn't agree. The brown mare was his favourite horse. She was stable and calm – even when the situation around her was not, making her very handy when riding on the field where people moved about and sang and where people could come up to her from all sides in ways that would make most stallions jumpy. She also had far more power to her than people thought on first glance. She was a good runner and a great jumper when she needed to be, but didn't mind walking or trotting and didn't fall into gallop when she wasn't urged to do so.

Riding slowly across his fields, Charlie's thoughts once more turned to Miss Granger. He really had never met a young woman quite like her. His sister was opinionated and hot-headed, yes, but she was also polished and in control. She loved mischief, but rarely – if ever – ended up in trouble because of it. She would have never spoken so freely in front of a stranger as Miss Granger had done when they first met.

No, Miss Granger was something out of the ordinary. She was passionate and intelligent and one of the most caring people Charlie had ever encountered. Not to mention absolutely adorable when she bit her lower lip. She was also in Boston – while he was stuck here.

The thought of going back to Boston had occurred to him several times during the past two months. Still, he knew he couldn't. This was the busiest time of the year – for him as for everyone else – and once it was over it was the start of the social season in Charleston. Fleur would most certainly never let him hear the end of it if he didn't show up for her big annual ball. Seeing how many business contacts were introduced at that types of function – legal and illegal ones – Charlie knew he couldn't miss out on the rest of the social season either.

The solution to his problem came as lightning from a clear blue sky. Halting his horse completely, Charlie stared straight ahead, wondering why on earth he hadn't thought of this solution before. Turning the mare around, Charlie soon had her breaking into gallop, his urge to get back fast almost overwhelming.

Charlie jumped of his horse even before she had fully halted and threw the reins to the stable boy who rushed to meet him.

"Keep her out, I'm taking her to Charleston," he yelled to Kingsley who was just exiting the stable to see what was going on. Charlie didn't stop to see Kingsley nod or take over the reins from the stable boy and ruffle the mare's mane as the stable boy proceeded to wipe the horse down to remove the sweat caused by the gallop. Instead he took the steps to the house two at the time, hurrying up to his room to change into something that would be suitable for Charleston. Fleur was fussy about what you wore to her house, and today he needed her support to make his plan work. Knowing his sister-in-law as he did, however, he wasn't particularly worried. Fleur would love the idea – and when she did, so usually did Bill as well. Then again, Charlie didn't really care about what Bill thought of the idea. He knew his brother well enough to know he would agree for no other reason than Charlie being the one to ask.

It was with a smile on his face that Charlie returned downstairs and mounted his mare. As she started to trot, Charlie felt a surge of satisfaction running through him. It was a good plan, now all it needed was a positive response from Mr and Mrs Granger.


	4. Surprises

**Surprises**

The carriage shook as it moved down the busy cobbled street. The train ride from Boston to New York had been smooth and quick, but the moment they changed to the carriage and entered the streets of New York, both speed and comfort had changed. The noise heard through the window of the carriage was loud and piercing as people talked, shouted and screamed to or at each other. Carriages fought for space with trolleys and pedestrians, resulting in a jerky journey as the carriage had to stop short every now and then to allow other carriages to pass or to avoid running over someone.

Looking out of the window, Hermione and Ginny could see elegant brownstone buildings standing next to houses made of wood. Many of the houses seemed to have business on the lower floors, and everywhere people could be seen doing deals and exchanging money. Some of the houses, they noticed as they got deeper into the city, looked similar to those they were used to in Boston, some looked like houses you would only find in the poor quarters – or so Hermione thought anyway. She had never been allowed into the poorer parts of Boston and could hence only guess at the state of the houses there. The cramped, small and dirty houses squeezed in between the larger brick buildings did however look a lot like the pictures she'd seen in news papers and books and it fitted her idea of what a poor house would look like.

They jumped as a man right next to their carriage started to yell and swear in a way that made both girls turn bright red. Judging from the way he jumped on one leg, scraping the sole of the shoe against the step of a house, he had obviously stepped into something you weren't supposed to step on. Frowning, Ginny promptly closed the curtain.

"We'll be there soon, I think," she said with a slight smile. "I'd forgotten that New York could be so…"

"Lively?" Hermione offered.

Ginny smiled and giggled. "Lively," she confirmed, bringing them both into laughter. "Don't worry, Hermione. Charleston is nothing like this, and we'll be here only for a couple of days. Just enough time for us to visit Madam Malkin's on Broadway to be fitted for ball dresses to wear at Fleur's season ball," she said reassuringly.

"Don't worry Ginny. It doesn't displease me. A bit more chaotic than at home perhaps, but that's… interesting," Hermione replied.

"Hermione, you can't fool me. I know you would have much rather taken the train straight to Charleston. But it will be worth the detour, I promise. Madam Malkin is the finest, and Mama already sent specifications and measurements ahead, so we only need to be here for the final fitting, and that won't take long at all," Ginny said, taking Hermione's hand in hers. "Oh Hermione, I'm so happy Bill and Fleur invited us _both_ to come, although I'm sure Charlie had more to do with your name being mentioned in my invitation than I did," she giggled.

Hermione blushed, and looked down at her hands. In truth she too was thrilled about being included in the invitation, not to mention surprised at how easily her parents had agreed to the trip. As soon as they were reassured that she would be staying with the eldest Mr Weasley and his wife and that she would be travelling with Ginny in safe and respectable conditions, they'd happily agreed to her going. Of course, the fact that she would just happen to be in the same town as the only eligible, respectable Weasley son left of course didn't make them less inclined to let her go. Especially not since she and Mr Weasley had been writing to each other for months now.

She was woken from her thoughts when the carriage suddenly came to a halt and the coachman yelled out to them that they had reached their destination. Gathering up the hems of their dresses, they got ready to leave the carriage – Ginny first and Hermione second.

"Ginny, you're here! Oy, George, get out here, they've arrived!"

Hermione heard him before she was even was out of the carriage. Mr Weasley was standing in the doorway of a large brownstone building that like so many others seemed to have a business of some sort on the first floor. He sported a wide grin on his face and his arms were outstretched as he stepped up to greet his sister with a hug. With a shout of joy, Ginny threw her arms around her brother and was subsequently spun around a few lapses before being set down on the ground again.

Mr Weasley put her down just as his brother came running out of the building behind him, greeting his sister with a shout and the same kind of enthusiasm his brother just had – spinning her around several times before he too set her down again.

Hermione's attention turned to Mr Fred Weasley as he approached her with his hand outstretched. The first thing she noticed was the stunningly magenta colour of his frock coat and vest – a colour that would suit very few men, but that clashed so violently with Mr Weasley's flaming red hair it nearly hurt your eyes to even look at him.

Smiling, she stretched out her own hand in greeting and bowed her head slightly.

"Mr Weasley, how lovely to see you again," she said, wondering, slightly worried, if all Weasley men had such little taste regarding colour when they didn't have their mother around to guide them in their choices.

"Miss Granger, welcome. It's been too long," Mr Fred Weasley replied, bringing her hand to his lips.

"Far too long," Mr George Weasley, who had just reached them, interjected, pushing his brother out of the way and taking her hand himself. Suppressing a laugh, Hermione greeted Mr George Weasley as she had done his brother, noticing that he, too, was wearing the same type of magenta frock and vest that his brother was.

As Mr Fred Weasley slipped the coachman some extra money to carry their luggage inside, his brother showed them into the building. It was truly a store they entered, the walls of the room was lined with shelves filled with the most variant goods for sale. A large counter dominated the room, and a door behind it seemed to lead to the more private parts of the house.

"We closed today since the two of you were arriving," Mr George Weasley said as he guided them behind the counter and through the door, where they were soon joined by his brother. The room was actually larger than the one they'd just passed through, and seemed to be some kind of store. Here too, the walls were lined with shelves which were filled with various goods and packages, as was the floor and a few of the smaller tables in the room. One bigger table was placed in the middle of the room, and judging from the amount of papers, pens and ink-pots present, this seemed to be functioning as a desk for both brothers.

Hermione jumped as a door in the back of the room, so hidden behind shelves and boxes that she hadn't even noticed it before, swung open. The girl that entered was a tall and lean and proud-looking black girl. She was dressed in a simple day dress, much like the ones worn by Sally back home in Boston – only this was of a much nicer fabric than Sally's and had a cleavage which Hermione had never seen on Sally. It was also of the same magenta colour as the twins' frock coats, and looked like it was quite unsuitable for shores around the house. Or so Hermione imagined Sally would say, had she seen the dress.

Unlike Fred and George Weasley, the girl looked quite fetching in the magenta colour. The bright colour complemented her dark skin well – far better than it would someone with fair skin, Hermione realised. The girl looked taken aback for a brief moment before she smiled at them.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that your guests had arrived already. Should I show them to their rooms?" she asked, looking at the twins. "Sirs?" she added quickly, and Hermione was quite sure the girl was blushing slightly, even though that was quite hard to see with her dark skin colour.

"Sure, l–"

A loud cough from George Weasley caught Fred Weasley off. Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione could see the twins exchanging glares with each other, before Fred Weasley continued to speak.

"That would be lovely, Angelina," he said with a casual voice. The girl nodded and smiled and gestured for Hermione and Ginny to follow her through the door she just entered. As she left the room and glanced back at the twins, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if the rumours about Fred Weasley and his maid had been as ludicrous as she had first thought they were.

They were led into a narrow hallway and up an equally narrow flight of stairs. When they entered another narrow hallway, Hermione couldn't help but to feel that this house had looked a lot bigger from the outside.

The room they were shown into was a lot larger than Hermione had expected when judging from the narrow hallways they'd just gone through. It had two windows overlooking the street and a large enough dressing table for both Ginny and Hermione to be satisfied. The two beds in the room indicated that Ginny and she would share, a fact that Hermione was quite pleased about. With so many new things to see and experience, it would be nice to have someone in your room who had been to New York before to share them with.

As Hermione looked out through the window on the busy street below, she felt a surge of excitement. She had never been in a place quite like this, and she felt quite sure that her parents would never have allowed her to come away, had they known about the accommodation. For Hermione, however, the mixture of people, the lively street below, even the noise penetrating the windows, all contributed to her mood and excitement – and as long as the windows were kept closed, the stench from the street would never bother them, she reasoned.

She smiled as she picked a bed and sat down, watching Ginny finish off a conversation with the black young woman who showed them in – Angelina, she remembered. The girl nodded to something Ginny had said, before she excused herself and left.

With a big smile, Ginny turned to face Hermione. "Dinner is in three hours, just enough time to change and get ready, and a carriage will be here to pick us up for our fitting with Madam Malkin early tomorrow morning," she said happily, sitting down on the bed next to Hermione. "I can't wait to see the dresses. Fleur has excellent taste and she is very good at describing what she wants," Ginny continued, getting up from the bed as quickly as she sat down, rummaging through her trunk for a fitting dress to wear to dinner.

"Your sister-in-law? I thought your mother had sent the specifications for the dresses," Hermione asked surprised.

Ginny pulled out a dress and laid it on the bed with a smile. "It hardly become creased at all," she said happily. "That will do just fine for tonight. And yes, Mama was the one to _send_ the specifications, but aside for the measurements, they were Fleur's work," Ginny explained. "She's very particular to what one wears at her gatherings, especially at her annual ball."

"I see," Hermione said, rising from the bed, getting out a dress for herself – eager to get out of the dusty travel dress she was wearing. She watched as Ginny rang a bell for a maid who could help them dress for dinner.

By bedtime, Hermione was exhausted. Dinner had been lovely, if simple, and with Ginny so happy about seeing her brothers for the first time in quite some time, Hermione didn't have the heart to express her wish turn in for the night, knowing that Ginny would feel obligated to come with her as to avoid waking her when going to bed later. The late night combined with the hours spent travelling, had rendered Hermione quite fatigued as she dressed in her nightclothes and crawled into bed.

Yet, in spite of being more tired than she could ever remember being, Hermione couldn't for the life of her fall asleep. If it was the excitement of travelling alone for the first time in her life, or the anticipation of seeing Mr Weasley again, or all the new impressions she'd received during the day, Hermione didn't know. But whatever the reason, she couldn't sleep.

As she tossed and turned in her bed, she started getting frustrated. The room felt stuffy and warm, and her nightclothes soon felt stuck to her body in a way that was completely uncomfortable. Had she been at home, she would have opened the window, but here the thought of the smell outside prevented her. Besides, even now in the late night she could hear the sound of people and carriages moving about in the streets, and opening the window would probably just wake up Ginny.

Not being able to stand the heat and the tension any longer, Hermione rose quietly from the bed. Silently she put on her a dressing gown, and slipped out of the room. She'd been shown a washroom further down the hall earlier, and if she could just splash some water on her face then surely she'd feel better.

Immediately upon closing the door behind her, she started to regret not bringing a candle. The hallway was dark and the only light came from a small window further ahead which the moonlight shone in through. Remembering that the washroom was somewhere close to the window, Hermione let the faint light guide her as she made her way forwards, and sure enough, she could soon step into the washroom.

While the room was as dark as the hallway outside, Hermione could still manage to find her way through the room by the use of her hands. When she returned to the hallway she still felt uneasy, but at least not quite as bothered by the heat. Still using her hands, Hermione started to feel her way back to her room. It was a bit more difficult now when she didn't have the light from the window to go by, but her memory was good and the narrow hallway straight so she could feel her way forward with her hands without too much trouble.

She stopped when she heard voices from one of the room. She wasn't exactly sure _why_ she stopped, or what it was in the voice that made her sharpen her ears and listen – the tone of the voice, or surprise that someone other than herself was still awake. The voices were hushed, but still they carried easily into the hall, one male and one female. Even without hearing them call each other by name, Hermione would have known who they belonged to.

"I didn't mean it like that, Fred," the young woman said, a sadness in her voice that couldn't be hidden by a whisper. "I know it's necessary, I'm not questioning that. I just didn't expect it to be this hard," she continued.

"I know, Angie, but we have no choice. Had it been just Ginny then maybe, but with Miss Granger here too–" Mr Weasley replied softly, his remark affecting Hermione more than it probably should. The two were not married, after all, and should most definitely not be alone together in a room after dark. Still, this was not a normal situation. The two obviously cared deeply for each other. Hermione wondered if they would have married if they would have been allowed to.

"I know that, Fred," Angelina assured him. "It's just… When I see you with your sister… She seems to be very important to you, and I would love to get to know her, and I know I never can. Not the way I would want to, anyway," she said sadly.

Mr Weasley sighed. "I know, love," he said simply. "I wish things were different too. Do you think I want to live like this? Sneaking into your room at night because I cannot have you in mine? Not being able to tell my own family about the woman I've fallen in love with? You do know that I love you, don't you, Angie?" he asked, and Hermione could imagine him reaching out to touch her face as he spoke.

As she heard the young woman answer softly, Hermione started to walk again, a bit ashamed at having listened to a conversation that clearly wasn't meant for her ears. Hurrying back as fast as the dark would let her, she crawled back into bed. Not that she could sleep any easier now than before.

She knew she was supposed to think that what Mr Weasley and Angelina were doing was wrong. They weren't married, and the bible clearly said that you weren't supposed to share a bed if you weren't. Everything she'd ever learnt told her that sharing a bed out of wedlock was a sin, that it was something that God did not look kindly on; something that would render both parties in hell.

Still, in her heart, Hermione couldn't stop herself from feeling differently. Mr Weasley and Angelina hadn't chosen this themselves. They _couldn't_ marry – the law wouldn't permit it. Only because Angelina was black. The laws really weren't fair.

Hermione couldn't see what was wrong with two people being in love. She knew many people, even people that agreed and argued with her that slavery should be abolished, could see the why it was wrong for black and white people to marry. Yet for Hermione the thought seemed odd. Didn't God create love? Didn't Jesus preach it? So how could love ever be a sin? To Hermione that just didn't make any sense.

Tired and feeling sleep finally coming closer, Hermione wished that Sally had been there. Sally would probably not agree with her, she rarely did in these cases, but she was nice to talk to nevertheless. She wondered if she should talk to Ginny about it, but quickly decided against it. What she had heard wasn't meant for her ears. It would be best if she left it alone, and pretended not to have heard anything at all. She wouldn't want Mr Weasley to get the impression that she was sneaking around eavesdropping on private conversations, after all.

When Hermione was woken by Ginny shaking her the next morning she felt as if she hadn't been asleep at all. All through the morning she kept yawning, or fighting yawns as her body simply refused to wake up properly. If the carriage ride to Broadway hadn't been as jerky and uncomfortable as their carriage ride to the twins' home, she would have surely fallen asleep before they reached their destination. As they turned out on Broadway, however, all of Hermione's fatigue seemed to vanish. This wasn't like the rest of the city. In fact this wasn't like anything she'd seen before.

The street was the widest she had ever seen, and even if it was just as crowded as the other streets, it didn't seem as it was. There were more carriages than trolleys, and people had fancier clothes and the street was far cleaner. The buildings that lined the street were also far taller than Hermione could have ever imagined houses to be, and she found herself staring in awe of it all.

When the carriage came to a halt, and she and Ginny stepped out, Hermione couldn't help but to turn and look around her. Not until Ginny pulled her arm, did she realise just how foolish she must look. With a slight blush she followed Ginny into the shop ahead.

The tinkle of the little bell above the door sounded throughout the shop as they opened the door. Once inside, Hermione realised that this too was quite different from her normal dressmakers back home. It was a large establishment with chairs to sit in while you waited and there wasn't just one podium to stand on for the fitting there were two, just as there were two large mirrors in front of them, and two large dressing rooms straight ahead. One of the walls was lined with shelves and filled with fabrics and boxes of already sewn dresses.

A squat woman in a mauve day dress emerged from a door in the back of the shop only seconds after the bell quieted. The moment she saw Hermione and Ginny she smiled widely and hurried up to them.

"Miss Weasley and Miss Granger, I presume?" she asked merrily, not even waiting for their reply before she ushered them inside. "Your dresses have been ready for a few days," she continued merrily while ringing a bell on the counter and offering them both to take off their outer clothing and hats and put their parasols in a stall behind the door – all at the same time.

Two young girls entered the room from the back, with a curtsey and taking their outer clothes to be properly hanged up.

"I'm delighted to have been given the opportunity to sew such spectacular dresses as the ones Mrs Weasley commissioned, and the two of you must simply tell her that she has splendid taste," Madam Malkin went on, while picking several boxes from the shelf behind the counter and double checking that they were the right ones. "I do believe it will be wise to start with the ball dresses, since they will take the longest time to fit," she mused contemplatively and pushed the boxes in the hands of her two assistants.

"Start with? You mean there is more than one," Hermione asked surprised, her question going unheard as she was shown into the fitting room with one of the girls, carrying at least four or five different boxes.

She didn't have time to repeat her question before the young woman started to help her undress. With nimble fingers, the girl worked her way through buttons and lacings, surprisingly quickly freeing Hermione of her jacket bodice, chemisette and skirt, before she started to nimbly unlace her corset.

"You'll need one made for the dress, Miss," the girl explained in a singing Irish accent, when she noticed Hermione's surprised expression. Hermione could see why, when the girl opened one of the many boxes to pull out the corset intended for the dress. The neckline was far deeper than any Hermione had worn before, and as the girl laced up the corset Hermione couldn't help but to blush when she saw the cleavage it created.

Once the corset was securely fastened, the girl pulled out a big petticoat from one of the other boxes. She didn't bother removing any of Hermione's petticoats, however, but simply added the new one on top of the others before she turned around again to pull out the skirt from a new box.

Hermione was surprised to see that the skirt was white, an unusual colour since it was so impractical. Still, even without a mirror in the fitting room, she couldn't deny that the skirt was beautiful and stylish. It had three wide layers of lace ruffles, with gatherings of small pink roses that together created an almost triangular line from bodice to the feet.

It was harder for Hermione to see the bodice without a mirror but it was low cut and left her shoulders bare in a way that she knew was stylish but that always made her feel very self conscious. Maybe she should ask Madam Malkin to raise the neckline a little, so that she wouldn't feel quite so exposed.

When the girl told her that she was done and sent her out of the fitting room and on to the podium, Hermione was awestruck. The dress looked so much better than she could have ever imagined, and all thoughts of asking Madam Malkin to change the neckline vanished from her mind as she looked at herself in the mirror. The bodice was indeed low cut, and there were no real sleeves to speak of. Instead, two layers of the same fine lace that decorated the skirt were gathered around her bodice, giving the illusion of short sleeves, where there were none. One single gathering of flowers like the ones on her skirt was fastened on the bodice, making a simple but elegant addition to the dress.

"Fleur has exquisite taste, doesn't she?" Ginny asked, making Hermione turn from her reflection in the mirror to her friend exiting the fitting room.

Hermione smiled and nodded as she watched Ginny move to the podium for her fitting. Ginny, too, was dressed all in white, although her dress had sleeves instead of the bertha of lace that Hermione's had, and were decorated with gatherings of daisies instead of roses. It also lacked the layers of lace but instead had several layers of beautiful white silk.

"I'm a bit surprised that they're white," Hermione said as Madam Malkin started to work on the hem of the dresses.

"That's because it's one of Fleur's favourite colours," Ginny giggled. "You'll see her. She looks spectacular in white. That and light blue are her best colours and hence what she always wears at balls," she continued, while admiring her dress in the mirror in front of them.

Hermione however was confused. "If white is_her_ best colour, why are _we_ dressed in white?" she asked. "Is this something she asks of all guests?" she then added.

Ginny laughed and shook her head. "Even Fleur couldn't demand that," she said, lifting her arm as Madam Malkin proceeded to adjusting her sleeve. "Only family are demanded to wear the same colour she is. It's a French thing I suppose, or a Fleur thing at least," she added with a smile.

"But Ginny," Hermione said. "I'm hardly family." She made a gesture towards the dress.

To her surprise Ginny's smiled only widened. "Apparently Fleur thinks you will be before long," she giggled happily, making Hermione turn positively pink.

"Ginny! You can't just assume such a thing!" she exclaimed.

"Well Fleur obviously does, and she knows Charlie quite well," Ginny responded merrily. "You would say yes, wouldn't you?" she then asked.

"Well…I… I haven't thought that far!" Hermione lied.

"Nonsense, Hermione!" Ginny said annoyed. "You're the most thought through person I know – of course you have thought of the possibility!"

"Well, yes I have," Hermione admitted, by now a shade of pink that rivalled the roses on her dress. "But I can't assume that it's going to happen. What if things are different between us? What if your brother has changed, or behaves differently when in the south. Maybe he's not at all the same–"

"He's my brother, Hermione!" Ginny interrupted her. "Don't you think I would have noticed if he behaved out of character back home?" she said firmly, and if Hermione could have blushed any more than she already were, she was quite sure she would have. "You worry too much," Ginny added with a smile.

Their conversation was interrupted when Madam Malkin announced that their fitting was done, and requested that they'll go and take off their dresses.

"And then you, Miss Granger, can put on the riding habit," she added, making Hermione turn and stare at her.

"A riding habit?" she asked Ginny, surprised.

"Charlie lives on a plantation. You didn't fancy walking around it, did you?" Ginny asked. "I mean you have ridden before, haven't you?"

"I have, when I visited my grandfather on his farm up north, I did," Hermione answered. "But he died eight or nine years ago," she added.

Ginny frowned. "So you haven't ridden at all since you were thirteen or fourteen years old?" she asked.

"No, I can't say I have," Hermione admitted. "But I'm sure I remember how it's done. Don't worry about it, Ginny," she said with a smile, entering the fitting room to try out the riding habit.

When Hermione and Ginny returned to the twins' house, it was already late afternoon. Their dresses and other purchases would be delivered separately and so they both hurried upstairs to change into more suitable attires. Since she finished faster than Ginny, Hermione decided to go and see if their parcels had arrived rather than wait. Finding her way down the narrow flight of stairs she opened the door to the back room of the shop and stepped inside.

She was surprised to see that the twins had company. Sitting comfortably back against one of the chairs in the room was a black man with full lips and a broad nose talking to the twins. He stopped talking the moment he saw Hermione, but unlike most men she had met didn't hurry to rise in her presence. Not until one of the twins gently nudged him did he stand.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Hermione said, knowing far too well why men stopped talking in women's presence.

"That's alright," Mr George Weasley replied with a smile. "This here is Lee Jordan, one of our…"

"He arranges storage facilities for us," his brother cut in as he seemed to hesitate.

"And the young lady is Miss Granger, from Boston, a friend of our sister who is also staying here at the moment," Mr George Weasley added, addressing the man beside him.

"Did you need our help with anything?" Mr Fred Weasley then said, turning to Hermione.

"Did you say Granger?" the black man asked curiously, not allowing Hermione to answer Fred's question. "From Boston?" he added.

Hermione looked at him with surprise and nodded. "Are you familiar with my family?" she asked surprised.

"Not I, but my father, I think, has worked for yours once or twice," the man said. "Do you still have a maid named Sally Thomas?" he asked before she could reply.

"Why, yes we do," Hermione answered. "She has been with us since I was a little girl," she added. "Do you know _her_ then?"

"She was a friend of my mother's. Even lived with us for a short while when I was a child, before she married," he confirmed.

"I'll let her know you remember her," Hermione said. "I'm sure she'll be delighted," she added. "And again," she said turning to both twins, "I'm sorry for the interruption. I was just wondering if our parcels had arrived yet," she explained.

"If they have, they'll be in the shop most likely," one of the twins replied. "Ask Angelina, she's in there," he continued.

Hermione nodded and gathered her dress as she made her way to the door on the other side of the room.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Jordan," she said courteously, before opening the door.

Behind her she could hear the surprised voice of the man she'd just met. "Did she just call me _Mr_ Jordan?"

"Apparently our brother knows what he's doing," one of the twins' voices replied as the door closed behind her, efficiently stopping her from hearing more as she stepped out into the busy shop, leaving Hermione to wonder what on earth _that_ meant.

Taking up as little of Angelina's time as was possible seeing how busy the store was, Hermione made her promise to send up the parcels as soon as they arrived. Angelina also showed her an alternative way upstairs so that she wouldn't have to disturb the men in the back room.

If Hermione had been tired the previous morning, her fatigue was nearly overwhelming after yet another sleepless night. As their things were packed and made ready to go, Hermione didn't have the energy for much more than to sit in a chair and pretend to read as her mind spun around.

With a yawn she wondered if overhearing things that weren't her business wasn't far too easy in this house. She had thought that the news of Mr Weasley and Angelina would have been more than enough, but the information she had overheard yesterday shook her even more.

It had been shortly after dinner, and Hermione had only left the sitting room for a short while to find the washroom. She had been surprised to hear Mr Jordan's voice, as she thought he had left hours earlier, and when she heard Angelina's heated reply to whatever he had been saying, she hadn't been able to stop herself from listening.

Clearly they were having a rather heated argument, and while lost at first, Hermione had soon understood that the reason was that Mr Jordan did not approve of Angelina's involvement with Mr Weasley. White and black shouldn't mix, he said. It would go wrong and Angelina would be the one to take the fall when it did. Angelina had clearly not agreed.

"Fred loves me, he wouldn't leave me!" she'd said angrily. "How can you even say such a thing? You like Fred!"

"I've never said I didn't like the guy," Mr Jordan replied quickly. "But what do you think he will do if you ever ended up pregnant? Marry you and raise the baby as his? Or leave you stranded in the street to save his own reputation?"

"He wouldn't do that!" Angelina had argued.

"Oh really? You might want to ask that house guest, Miss Granger, about that?" Mr Jordan had replied, making Hermione nearly gasp, as she couldn't for the life of her understand what she had to do with all of this. "But then she probably doesn't know about her own maid's unfortunate past," he continued, making Hermione step closer to the door.

"What on earth has Miss Granger's housemaid to do with me and Fred?" Angelina had asked, mirroring Hermione's own questions.

"She, too, thought that she was loved. She, too, allowed her employer to enter her bed. It worked just fine, until the day she became pregnant and came crying at my mother's doorstep when the love of her life kicked her out without another word. I was only two, but I still remembered the lesson," Mr Jordan had said harshly.

This time Hermione hadn't been able to cover her gasp, the idea of Sally alone, pregnant and abandoned, more than she could handle. Sally was always the calm one. The one to tell her exactly why it was a bad idea to leave propriety to the side, refusing to address Hermione by her first name only, even thought she had seen her grow up from the crib. Suddenly her reluctance took on a new meaning.

In the back of her mind, Hermione had heard Angelina protest, shouting that Fred wasn't like that, that he wouldn't do that.

"He might not be able to marry me, but he would take care of me and his child!" she had stated firmly.

"That would be even worse!" Mr Jordan had shouted. "Don't you see that there are more important issues here than you and him? What do you think will happen if Fred and George are forced to close down their business, because Fred was reckless with you? How many people will be in trouble then? How many lives would be in danger if we can't go on–"

"Leave me alone, Lee! I am not going to listen to another word you–"

Hermione hadn't even heard the rest of what Angelina had said, hurrying away to the washroom, where she could lock herself away and think, her previous needs completely forgotten.

Even after an entire night's turning and twisting in bed, Hermione couldn't really accept what she had heard. She knew that Sally had arrived in the house only weeks after she had been born, and she knew that Sally had a child around the same age as she was, and hence must have been pregnant when she started to work for them. She had, however, always assumed that that son, Dean she thought his name was, had been Sally's husband's son as well. It had never occurred to her to ask _when_ Sally had married Mr Thomas, and she had the feeling that even if she had asked, Sally would probably have lied to protect her secret.

Her thoughts were scattered when Ginny came for her, saying that the carriage that was supposed to take them to the station had arrived and was ready and waiting. Hermione nodded and rose, putting on a straight face as she went to say her goodbyes to Mr and Mr Weasley. Once safely in the carriage, Hermione's thoughts started to wander again, and it took Ginny several minutes to get her attention.

"Tired?" she asked amused.

Hermione nodded. "I didn't sleep very well," she admitted with a smile.

"I know what you mean," Ginny said consolingly. "It was the same thing for me the first time I was in New York," she said as the carriage rolled onto the street and started its jerky ride to the station.

Hermione faked a smile, knowing that if Ginny had known what she did, she wouldn't have said that. As she looked out the window at the crowded streets and the variety of people, she hoped that the rest of this trip would be free of surprises. Well, apart from one, that was. But then that wouldn't be as much of a surprise as a wish come true, she thought as she allowed herself to concentrate on what might come instead of what had been.

* * *

A bertha lining was the name of the type of lining described on Hermione, and shown in the above picture. It was extremely popular during the mid 1800s.Also the use of the word dress instead of gown is not a mistake. In all references I found, the term used has been dress – which makes me assume that was the correct term at the time (as a reference those same sources talk of riding habits not riding dresses or riding gowns.) 


	5. Third Time's the Charm

**Third Time's the Charm**

Charlie slowed down his mare as he approached the centre of Charleston. It wouldn't do to gallop a horse through the streets of a city, after all. The risk of the horse running over someone or slipping on the cobblestones was too great. For the third time since he left home, Charlie took the watch out of the pocket of his vest only to see what he already knew. He swore silently to himself. He was too late, they would have arrived over an hour ago. Not that he hadn't known that already when he had left his home. It was just that now, when he was actually closing in on his brother's home it became all the more real.

He'd had this day planned for over a month now. He was to arrive at his brother's well before their train was due, dressed in the same green cravat and vest as he had been dressed in on their second meeting, ready to meet both Miss Granger and his sister when they arrived. He would stand next to Bill and Fleur and while they greeted Ginny, he would greet Miss Granger, taking her arm as _he_, rather than Ginny, introduced her to Bill and Fleur, showing her through his actions that it was his idea to invite her, not Fleur's or Bill.

It had been a good plan. But then the new slave he'd bought at the slave market next to the Custom House on Broad Street a couple of days ago, had decided that today was an excellent day to escape. Charlie had spent the entire morning searching for the fugitive, knowing that if the young man were to stand any chance of survival, he needed to find him before there was any leak of his escape to the surrounding plantation owners. Runaway slaves were shot or hanged, and he just couldn't allow the chase to be conducted by anyone else than himself. Even with explicit instructions not to hurt or kill the man, the risk of him being brought back dead or maimed was far too large.

He'd found and caught the man just before noon, and been forced to watch as he was clad in chains to stop him from escaping again. Charlie hated chains. It was the first thing he'd remove after bringing a slave home, and they were rarely, if ever, used after a slave had arrived on his lands. With young men such as this one, however, there was no alternative to stop him from escaping, and hence better for his safety to use them than be free of them.

Charlie was late when they started the ride back to the plantation, but not more than could be rectified with a fast ride. But, of course, fate had decided to conspire even more against him, and so he had run into Mr Malfoy on the way home, and had to explain the reason he was out riding and why he had a slave clad in chains on the cart following behind him.

Mr Malfoy had argued that fugitives should be shot, or at the least be clad in a collar containing loud bells that sounded as he walked. That way you could supposedly hear when they tried to escape and didn't need to bother keeping such a close watch on them.

Charlie had forced a smile on his lips and thanked him for his advice and attempted to be on his way, but Mr Malfoy had turned his horse around and decided to follow him home. Etiquette preventing Charlie from riding ahead and Malfoy never being one to ride fast, the way back had been languid and slow. By the time they reached the plantation, Charlie had been about ready to strangle his neighbour if he didn't be quiet about how to best treat slaves that had escaped.

"And of course, you have to give the young man a thorough thrashing with the whip. But then I hardly need to tell you that," he'd said with a grin and a wink.

Surprised that he could still smile convincingly, Charlie had nodded and agreed, knowing that the young man behind him would have heard and would be even less inclined to stay at the plantation now.

Noon had turned into early afternoon before Charlie could leave for Charleston, and even if he had ridden as fast as he could without straining his horse too much, he was now more than an hour late. Ginny and Miss Granger would be well settled in by now.

As he turned onto Queen Street, he could see the big house that belonged to his brother. It was one of the bigger ones on the street, built recently with inspiration from the big plantations outside of town. Big white columns decorated the front of the light blue house, and a railing between the columns created a big balcony on the second floor that stretched along the entire front of the house.

The carriage that his brother had sent to pick Ginny and Miss Granger up was standing empty next to the house. Even the luggage had been brought inside, and the horses had been moved to their stables. One of the servants took his horse as Charlie jumped off, promising to take good care of the tired mare.

Bill was the first to greet him when he stepped into the spacious drawing room. Seeing Charlie enter, he tossed his newspaper on the table in front of him and rose quickly. In the corner of his eye, Charlie could see Fleur looking up from her embroidery where she sat next to the window. She slowly put down her work on the table next to her, never one to hurry things or move too fast. Rushing was unladylike she claimed with passion, whenever Bill urged her to speed up.

"I thought you were going to come much sooner," Bill said as he took Charlie's hand. "The girls arrived well over an hour ago," he added.

Nodding his hello to Fleur as she got up from the chair and walked over to him, Charlie turned back to his brother.

"I was detained," he said with displeasure.

"Well, you are 'ere now, and ze girls are upstairs washing off ze travel dust," Fleur said with her deep Frensh accent, stretching out her hand for Charlie to kiss. "Did you know, zat Miss Granger 'ad never seen a bathtub with a gas furnace?" she asked as the three of them moved over to the sofa. Bill laughed softly.

"I've been trying to tell my deer wife here that bathtubs such as this one are a_novelty_, not a matter of course, and that they aren't at all common in Boston," Bill said laughing.

"But Boston ees a city!" Fleur said heatedly. "In Paris, someone of Miss Granger's status would be sure to 'ave one," she insisted.

"Boston isn't Paris, my dear," Bill said. "And besides, it wasn't more than twenty years ago that they banned all kind of bathing that wasn't directly medicinal in purpose," he added, making Fleur gasp and stare at him with utter disbelief.

"Actually, last I heard, that law hasn't been repealed yet," Charlie added with a smile, highly amused by the shocked expression on Fleur's face.

"You mean zat people in Boston do not bathe!" she exclaimed, making both Charlie and Bill fold over with laughter.

"Of course they do, my love," Bill said happily. "No one cares about that bill anymore. It's just that bathtubs and running water might take a bit longer there, that's all," he laughed softly.

"Zen I'm glad zat we aren't living in Boston!" Fleur said with a huff, never one to enjoy being the focus of laughter.

The ringing of a bell brought a young maid into the room and Fleur ordered tea to be brought to them. With a simple look and an arched brow from her, Bill had folded his newspaper and put it away. Charlie smiled. He found these silent communications between Bill and Fleur highly amusing, especially since while Bill often claimed to rule his household, everyone knew that it was Fleur that held the real power in the house. Bill simply adored her too much to deny her anything she wanted.

"So what was it that kept you?" Bill asked as they were well seated with the tea in front of them.

"An escape," Charlie said quietly, casting a glance through the door at the staircase on the other side. "The young man I acquired the other day at the market," he added.

"Did you find him again?" Bill asked. Charlie nodded.

"I'll probably send him along with the next shipment. I hate the idea of being forced to have him in chains–"

"Bill! Charlie! No talking business now," Fleur interrupted them, clearly displeased. Both men stopped and smiled at her.

The sound of voices drifting down the staircase caught their attention, and suddenly Charlie was more than thankful that Fleur had interrupted his chat with Bill. If things went the way he had hopes for, he would have to tell Miss Granger about his business soon, but he still wanted to spend more time with her before he decided if the risk was worth taking or not. Besides, judging from her previous statements on slavery, starting out by talking about putting a man in chains would hardly be the best way to go about telling her about him owning slaves.

When she entered the room, Charlie nearly gasped. She was dressed in the same crimson house dress that she'd worn on his first visit to her house, and again, Charlie was struck by the thought that she should never be allowed to wear any other colour at all. The glow of her skin, the reflections in her hair, it all worked perfectly together, making her far more beautiful than any time else.

"Charlie, you're here!" Ginny said, passing her friend as she approached him to give him a hug. Charlie smiled and hugged her, making sure to ask her if the trip had been pleasant and if their brothers were alright in New York. He hardly heard her answers, however, his attention too focused on Miss Granger for that.

"Miss Granger, how lovely to see you again," he said, leaving his sisters company to approach her. "I'm terribly sorry, I was not here to greet you when you arrived, it was my every intention to be, but unfortunately life decided differently," he said with a smile as he lifted her hand to his lips. "Will you forgive me?" he asked, still holding her hand.

The blush that spread across Miss Granger's cheeks was almost as flattering as the dress, and the smile that she couldn't keep back as she lowered her eyelashes made Charlie all the more sure that he had been right to ask Fleur to extend the invitation to her. He had been worried that his, or her, feelings would have dulled or changed with the distance in time and space, but meeting her now, made him realise that there had been no need to worry.

"There is really nothing to forgive, Mr Weasley," Miss Granger said. "I am your brother's guest, so there was no need for you to be here and greet me when I arrived," she continued, raising her head to meet his gaze once more.

Charlie smiled. "That may be, but I am still terribly sorry that I wasn't. Will you not say you forgive me," he insisted, sporting a playful grin.

"Only if it won't stop you from making it up to me," she teased him.

"Never!" he laughed. "But it will make me feel better," he continued.

"Then I'll forgive you," she said with a wide smile.

"Will you keep the lady occupied for much longer, Charlie? Or did you plan on letting her join the rest of us for tea, anytime soon," Bill called out from the sofa, making Ginny laugh and Miss Granger blush once more. Charlie glared at his brother from behind Miss Granger as they walked over to the other, but Bill only smiled and winked as they both sat down.

The afternoon passed far too quickly for Charlie's taste. On Miss Granger's demand, Bill talked briefly about his job at the Bank of Charleston, and Fleur took it upon herself to inform her about the workings of Charleston social life, and which types of functions she would take both young women to during the time they stayed in their house.

"We will 'ave afternoon tea at least once at the Planter's 'otel," she said happily. "Zat is a very popular 'otel zis time of year. All ze wealthy planters stay zere during the social season, and it ees a very good place to meet ze right people," she explained. "Zen zere is ze formal dinner at Madame Parkinson's and ze traditional tea-party at Madame Brown's, and of course, ze balls which will be spread out throughout ze season, starting with mine next week," she finished with a wide smile.

"We'll get to pay the plantation a visit too, won't we, Charlie?" Ginny asked when Fleur was finally done talking.

"Of course," Charlie said with a smile, sharing a look with Miss Granger. He was pleased to see that she lit up a little at the prospect.

"After ze ball," Fleur interjected quickly. "We 'ave a lot to prepare before zen," she added with a smile.

When tea-time was over, Fleur made excuses for not only herself, but for Ginny and Miss Granger as well. Always one to take her role as a hostess seriously, she was quickly proving a bigger obstacle for Charlie than Mr and Mrs Granger when wanting to spend time alone with Miss Granger. A bit discontented, Charlie settled for spending the rest of the afternoon discussing business with his brother, planning for the next shipment of slaves up north.

The fact that Bill worked at the bank was fortunate and truly helped when needing to cover the differences in the amount of cotton that_officially_ went out on shipments and the amount of money that came in. A few changes in the books, and Charlie's affairs seemed in perfect order for anyone who would care to take a look. Not that many would, but since Mr Snape had taken over the courthouse, it seemed wise not to give him the opportunity to suspect any foul play. Mr Snape had, after all, in spite of him only being twelve at the time, been one of the men behind the exposure of Denmark Vesey's planned slave rebellion in 1822. Something he pointed out both often and willingly. He was known for his hard views on slavery and for being one of the men that argued hardest for keeping the law that all black seamen – free or otherwise – should be imprisoned in the city jail while their ship was in port.

Dinner was, as always, a fancy affair when Fleur was responsible. Dishes were mainly French in origin, since Fleur claimed that 'Americans knew nothing of the pleasures of proper cuisine!' She had insisted on hiring a French housekeeper to rule over the kitchen the moment she'd accepted Bill's proposal, and she made sure that any young slave that was ever let into the kitchen was properly trained in the art of French cuisine before being allowed anywhere close to the pots and pans. As a result dinner was always exquisite and unusual, and anyone lucky enough to be invited to formal dinners at their house left almost ecstatic. There were a lot of things that could be said about Fleur, but not doing things to perfection was not one of them.

Miss Granger too seemed impressed with the food, and seemed both happy and at ease during dinner. Fleur had, thankfully, arranged for her to sit next to Charlie during the meal, so Charlie did get to speak to her a little more than before, although not nearly as much as he would have wanted to. When Fleur suggested that she, Ginny and Miss Granger should withdraw after dinner to leave Bill and Charlie to their cognac and cigars, Charlie could only feel frustration with the situation. Never had he thought that courting a woman would be _harder_ when she was away from her parents.

He left before having the opportunity to see her again, forced to leave by the quickly fading light of the day. Evening fell increasingly quickly and the road home took its time. Had he not known the road as well as he did, he would have hesitated before riding in twilight, and even with his deep knowledge of the way, he wished to return home before darkness fell. Crickets had already started to serenade the coming night, as Charlie rode out into the oak lined road, where the Spanish moss, hanging from those oaks, swayed gently in the warm breeze of the evening as Charlie urged his horse into a quick trot, waiting to change to a gallop until he was outside the city.

* * *

Some of the earlier types of bathtubs were shoe-shaped and made out of either copper or tin. They had a gas furnace at the end to heat the water, which would flow and circulate until it was properly heated. These first types of tubs like this were still filled up in the manual way, but during the 19th century running water was becoming increasingly common.

In 1835 Boston passed a bill forbidding bathing for other than medical reasons. As far as I have found that law was never repealed – although I have a feeling that most people living in Boston happily break it every day :D


	6. Turning Point

**Turning Points**

One week went surprisingly fast when Mrs Fleur Weasley was in charge of events. From the moment Hermione and Ginny had arrived, Mrs Weasley had made sure to keep them occupied. The one visit to the Planter's Hotel that she had mentioned on their first night had, after only one week, already become two. Hermione was quite sure it would turn into both three and four as well, as Mrs Weasley seemed quite fond of the place.

It was nice, she supposed – an interesting building with its wrought iron balcony and recessed porch, as well as a place for wonderful food and afternoon tea. What brought Mrs Weasley to the hotel, however, was neither the beautiful building, nor the wonderful food, but the rich and influential people that frequented the establishment.

It did seem the perfect place to meet people. During the social season many of the wealthy planters from the midlands of South Carolina came to stay in Charleston. Rich and wealthy men, meant, as could be expected, that families with young unmarried daughters flocked to the hotel as well, for tea or dinner or – if things were going well – both. No doubt many carried hopes of finding a suitable match in marriage during these weeks.

Rich and wealthy men also meant a great opportunity for business. Therefore the Charleston men, too, congregated to the building where those opportunities could be found. Invitations went out, deals were struck, and many partnerships started within the walls of the hotel.

Charles Weasley, who from the day Hermione and Ginny arrived in Charleston, had taken it on himself to escort them to any place they chose to go, had already on their first visit to the hotel, made quite a few predictions as to who would strike deals with whom before the season was over. That was, until Mrs Weasley interrupted him and told him in no uncertain terms that he should not discuss business at their table.

"Eet is boring!" she'd announced firmly. "And not something you discuss in ze presence of ladies," she'd added.

It turned out this was not the only area where Mrs Weasley's ideas of what was appropriate for a lady differed from those of her brother-in-law. She'd been quite upset when Charles – as Hermione had secretly started to think of him – had insisted on bringing Hermione to visit the Charleston Library Society, although in that case he had – to Hermione's happiness – proved the more determined one. Ignoring Mrs Weasley's protests, Charles had proceeded to tell Hermione about how the Society was more than one hundred years old and also the third oldest library in the country. It was a fact that had surprised Hermione a great deal. She'd always thought of people living in the south as less educated than people living in the north, a fact she now realised was, at least partly, prejudice on her behalf. The brown brick building had been quite impressive, and their visit there had so far been the one that Hermione had appreciated most during her stay.

Tonight, however, neither the Library Society nor the Planter's hotel was on Hermione's mind. Her stomach was actually fluttering quite nervously, in fact, as the ball was ready to commence in just a short while.

She was already dressed and ready, her dress in impeccable order and her hair arranged in long drop curls that hung from the back of her head. Mrs Weasley's maid had proven to be very skilful and surprisingly swift when arranging her hair, even though the black girl had muttered something about a bird's nest under her breath while working. As a result of the girl's skills, Hermione had nothing to do at the moment other than to wait, which only made her more nervous as waiting had never been her strong suit.

Hermione was relieved when Ginny came into her room, providing a welcome distraction from waiting. She looked splendid in her white dress and the pearls that were adorning her neck and arms only added to the impression. It seemed that she, too, had had her hair taken care of by the skilful maid. She had it parted in the middle, according to the latest French trends, and tiny white flowers, matching those on her dress, made a bright contrast against the fiery red of her hair. She spun around with her dress held out wide as she entered the room, and laughed as she slumped down on the floor in front of Hermione, demanding that she, too, made a show of herself.

"You look spectacular," she said, with a wide smile when Hermione after fussing for a while finally spun around.

"Not like you, I don't," Hermione answered, more than a bit jealous about the way Ginny's hair contrasted so strikingly against the white colour of the dress. Her own hair looked pretty enough for now, but Hermione knew it well enough to know that more than one lock of hair would escape the neat order of curls before the night was over. To her credit, Ginny pretended not to hear her comment, but rather went on to chat about the ball.

They had already met quite a few of the people who were attending, since Charleston's High Society – like Boston's – consisted of a fairly limited number of families. At the planter's hotel they had already run into and talked to several families, although Hermione could only remember the names of a handful of them. She remembered the Parkinsons, because she thought that Miss Parkinson had seemed both unpleasant and haughty. On the other hand Miss Greengrass and her family hadn't been that bad, and Miss Bell had seemed rather nice. The young Mr McLaggen, however, had seemed rather awful and in the short ten minutes that she'd spoken to him, he had already managed to insult her more than she thought was possible.

By the time one of the maids came up to collect them, Hermione wasn't at all too sure about this any longer. Then Ginny mentioned her brother in passing, and Hermione could feel her stomach do a flip and she knew it didn't matter if everyone else on the party was horrible, as long as Charles was there.

They descended the stair to the second floor of the house together, just as a few guests were arriving through the front door. From the floor below, they could hear the maid greet them and offer to take their coats before guiding them to the staircase leading up to where the ball was to be held. Another maid was standing outside the dining room, waiting to usher everyone inside. She smiled when she saw Hermione and Ginny and quickly guided them inside to where Mr and Mrs Weasley were waiting to greet their guests.

Fleur Weasley's dress was as white as theirs, with rich silk draped in several layers of deep flounce. The dress was decorated with the tiniest blue flowers arranged in bouquets around the skirt and deep neckline, and a light blue silk bow was decorating her hair. With a smile, she hugged them both, before letting them go off to explore the rooms arranged for the ball.

The spacious dining room had been transformed with long tables around the walls to hold drinks and food, and the adjacent room, which Hermione hadn't seen before, had been opened up to reveal an even bigger room. The room was practically empty apart from a few round tables with chairs standing along the wall in one of the corners, and a small orchestra situated along the short side. Large paintings decorated the walls and big chandeliers provided the room with a dazzling light. Large windows lined both long walls, and big French doors led out to the balcony overlooking the street. Curious, Hermione and Ginny stepped outside watching carriage after carriage driving up to the house, as people were beginning to arrive.

"Hiding already?"

Both girls jumped at the sound of Charles Weasley's voice, and Ginny proceeded quickly to playfully hit her brother for giving them quite the scare. Hermione, however, suddenly felt very aware of herself. The way Charles looked when he teased and played with Ginny while leaning casually against the doorframe, made her feel odd and quite flustered.

"Fleur wanted me to escort you both inside," he laughed, giving Hermione an appreciatory look – or at least she thought it looked that way, even if she couldn't be sure out here in the gloom of the evening. Taking Ginny by one of his arms, Charles offered Hermione the other, to lead them both inside.

The ball room had now started to fill with people, men and women old and young, all dressed in clothes of the most splendid colour and textures. Silk, velvet, lace all blended with the bows and the flowers that decorated the dresses and hairstyles. The orchestra hadn't started playing yet, the players were still warming up their instruments, so people were chatting and greeting each other while waiting. Women were fanning themselves coyly, sending signals with their fans as there was no real need to use one against the heat yet. Hermione guessed that would change during the course of the evening.

A corner proved a wonderful spot for observation, and with a low voice Charles provided Hermione and Ginny with information about the various guests, spiced with quite a bit of gossip, Hermione noticed. To Hermione's disappointment, they were interrupted rather quickly, when Fleur Weasley came to find her house-guest to make sure they were properly introduced to the more important guests.

"You cannot 'old on to zem, all night, Charles!" she said reproachfully. "Ze guests are anxious to meet ze girls," she added with a proud smile, taking Ginny and Hermione by the hands to show them the way.

"Before you steal them away from me, Fleur," Charles called out quickly, taking a hold of Hermione's hand, making her stomach do a gigantic flip and her face flush. "I would like to ask a favour of Miss Granger here," he added.

Slightly surprised, Hermione nodded to him to go on, wondering what favour she could possibly do him. Both Mrs Weasley and Ginny, however, looked very pleased, and moved away giving them some privacy. Fanning herself in a vain attempt to cool down her nerves rather than her body temperature, Hermione beckoned Charles to go ahead with his question, slightly annoyed with herself for behaving like the girls she had just observed.

"What favour did you want to ask me?" she asked.

"Save a dance for me," Charles said with a smile. "Or better yet, let me sign your dance card to make sure that I get at least a couple," he added, making her smile as she handed him her dance card. Only by biting her lip did Hermione manage not to tell him to keep it. Truth was that she didn't want to dance with anyone else, but she knew such a bold move would be very improper and she did not want to give anyone – least of all Charles – the wrong idea of what kind of person she was.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley," she said, smiling as he handed her dance card back to her. "And it was really no favour to speak of," she boldly added, despite the heightened risk of him believing she was constantly the shade of a tomato.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Miss Granger," he replied quietly. "Then maybe I'll be so bold as to ask you another," he said, waiting for her to silently nod her response. "When Mr McLaggen asks for it, tell him it's full," he whispered with a wink, inevitably making her giggle.

"That is a favour which I have no problem granting," she whispered back.

Even knowing that she should turn and leave his company to go and find Ginny and Mrs Weasley, Hermione stood still, as did Mr Weasley. He was just about to speak when they heard a female voice call out.

"Mr Weasley, How lovely to see you again!"

As she turned a middle-aged woman and a young woman that Hermione thought was around her own age approached them quickly. Hermione recognised the elder woman immediately, as Mrs Weasley had introduced Mrs Brown only the other day. The younger woman, however, was a stranger even if Hermione felt fairly certain that she must be Mrs Brown's daughter, as they looked rather alike. Surely Mrs Weasley had mentioned Mrs Brown having a daughter, had she not?

Charles quickly confirmed Hermione's suspicion as he greeted both mother and daughter and then proceeded to introduce them both to Hermione, apparently forgetting that Hermione had already been introduced to Mrs Brown.

The impression Hermione got of Mrs Brown when meeting her the first time, was that the woman was quite overwhelming. This was an impression that was now quickly proved true when she with loud voice reprimanded Charles Weasley for not remembering that she and Hermione had already met. Above all else, she spoke of her daughter, in spite of the fact that the young woman was standing right next to her. Not that Miss Brown paid any attention to what her mother said at the moment, Hermione noted with displeasure. The young woman seemed far more concerned with making Charles sign her dance card.

"No need to be so modest, Mr Weasley," she said with a bright smile and a boldness that had Hermione regretting not being braver before. After all, if Charles Weasley had proven anything in the past few months, it was that he had little concern for form and social rules but approved highly of honestly and bravery.

Of course, it didn't help that Miss Brown was a very pretty young woman. Her blond curls, were perfectly arranged, and Hermione was quite sure that she never had anyone call _her_ hair a bird's nest. Her neck was long and slender, and her pink dress worked beautifully with her pale skin. It was with more than a slight pang of jealousy that Hermione excused herself from the company of Mrs Brown and ventured out into the crowded room to find Mrs Weasley and Ginny.

The task of working one's way through a crowded ballroom, filled with people one didn't know, was proving to be rather difficult. Everywhere she turned, Hermione seemed to be blocked by people greeting each other or talking amicably. Men laughed loudly and heartily when talking to potential new business partners, and young women giggled behind their fans as young men asked for their dance cards, mothers stood by with watchful eyes to make sure no inappropriate matches were made or any behaviour went out of line.

The scent of perfume lay heavily in the air, and Hermione was quite grateful that Mrs Weasley had ordered the windows and doors to be left open to the air outside. For a moment, Hermione considered heading back to the balcony to spend the night out there. Maybe Charles would even join her, if he wasn't too preoccupied with the pretty Miss Brown.

After a near encounter with Mr McLaggen, only avoided with an abrupt turn and a good piece of luck, Hermione was relived when she finally saw Ginny's and Mrs Weasley's white dresses stand out against the crowd. Relieved, Hermione made her way through the crowd and over to them.

"Zere you are!" Mrs Weasley said with a big smile when she saw her approach, taking Hermione by the hand to lead her up to the man she was presently talking to. "Mr Nott, zis is Miss Granger, a very good friend of Miss Weasley 'ere, and a guest in ze 'ouse for ze next few weeks," she introduced.

The tall, stringy looking man smiled and took her hand to his lips as he greeted her. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," he said.

"Mr Nott, you said?" Hermione said surprised. "That wouldn't be the same Nott as Dr Josiah Clark Nott, would it?" she asked, not being able to stop either the question or the sound of disdain in her voice though the sharp elbow in her side from Ginny told her that she had clearly stepped over the line.

Mr Nott, however, had apparently not heard the way her voice sounded, or just didn't care, because his face lit up in a wide smile at the words. "Well of course! Josiah is my uncle. I am delighted to meet a woman – and one from the north, nonetheless – that has heard of his works."

"Read them, actually," Hermione answered, receiving another elbow in the ribs. With a glare at Ginny she rubbed her side, annoyed by Ginny's accuracy.

"Even better!" Mr Nott exclaimed. "I find his works on racial issues most intriguing, and he has done so much to help the public understand that neg–"

"Mr Nott, as interesting as your uncle may be, zis is not ze time nor ze place to discuss such matters. And surely you 'ave more interesting theengs to discuss with ze ladies," Fleur interrupted him skilfully, while Ginny pinched Hermione hard in the arm, shaking her head vigorously when Hermione glared at her.

"Of course, I'm terribly sorry. You're absolutely right, Mrs Weasley, this is not a topic suited for ladies or for a ball," Mr Nott answered with a smile. "I'll behave myself, I promise, but maybe Miss Granger would be so kind as to let me sign her dance card?" he continued turning to Hermione.

"It's full," Hermione answered, not being able to think of anything less enjoyable than dancing with someone like Mr Nott, except possibly for dancing with Mr McLaggen.

"Ah, too late, so soon," Mr Nott said. "I'll remember to be quicker next ball," he added, taking her hand and kissing it lightly again before he excused himself and moved on.

"Hermione! What were you thinking?" Ginny snapped the moment he was out of earshot.

"What was _I_ thinking? What is_he_ thinking? You do realise that he was on the verge of saying–"

"Something that almost everyone in this room thinks! Hermione, remind yourself of where you are. You heard what Charlie said in Boston. You either agree or keep your mouth shut here. Please, for my brothers' sake if not for your own, just don't bring up the topic for debate tonight," Ginny pleaded.

Hermione sighed. "Alright, I won't tell them that they're morally corrupt and horrible human beings!" she said resignedly.

"I guess we'll have to be grateful for the little things," Ginny said rolling her eyes.

At that moment, the room quietened as Bill Weasley announced that the dancing was to commence. Almost instantly the orchestra started to play and people without a dance partner moved away from the dance floor. Ginny and Hermione both joined the people moving into the adjacent room, while Bill Weasley took his wife's hand and led her onto the dance floor.

Relieved when she saw both Mr Nott and Mr McLaggen move towards the dance floor, Hermione rested assured that she could safely move about without the risk of running into either of them.

She was stopped just before she reached the door, and when she turned a smile spread across her face.

"Didn't you look at your dance card, or did you decide that I would probably just step on your toes?" Charles Weasley asked with a wink and a smile.

Inwardly scolding herself for not being more observant, Hermione smiled back and took his offered arm as he led her to the dance floor.

"You didn't answer which of my alternatives were right," Charles pointed out once they were on the dance floor, the soft music guiding their movements as Mr Weasley's hand slipped around her waist.

"I didn't look," Hermione said, more than slightly distracted by the way it felt to be in Charles's arms. "I had the unfortunate bad luck of ending up in Mr Nott's company," she added, trying hard not to lean too far into the embrace.

"Ah, I see. That can be unfortunate indeed. He didn't brag about his uncle I hope? He is ridiculously proud of the man," Charles said. "Especially considering the fact that he has done nothing to be proud off," he added in a low voice, spoken so closely to Hermione's ear that she could feel hot breath on her neck and sense the clean fresh scent that surrounded him.

"I'm afraid _I_ brought that up," Hermione admitted reluctantly, her voice somewhat less stable than it had been a minute ago. "Ginny stopped me before I told him what I thought of the man, however."

"I shall remember to thank my sister later then," Charles answered with a smile as he spun her around. "Some things are better not spoken of here," he added.

The dance ended far too quickly, and even before Charles had been able to guide Hermione from the dance floor, Miss Brown was at their side, all smiles and giggles as she reminded Mr Weasley that he had signed her dance card for this dance. Grudgingly, Hermione assured him that she would be quite fine and was more than able to escort herself, even if she hated to be forced to watch Charles take Miss Brown's hand and lead her to dance.

Miss Brown really was annoyingly pretty, Hermione thought as she watched the two – all coy smiles and fluttering eyelids as she moved over the dance floor with a natural grace and elegance that would leave almost anyone envious. Jealousy wasn't a feeling Hermione was used to, and she wished that the fact that Miss Brown's beautiful pink dress clashed rather horribly against Charles's hair didn't please her as much as it did.

"She isn't the one wearing a white dress," a voice behind her suddenly said.

Startled, Hermione turned around to see Bill Weasley standing behind her.

"Trust me, Miss Granger, my wife rarely does anything randomly, and she is very good at these things," he added with a smile that had Hermione blush from head to toe. Had her thoughts and feelings really been that obvious to anyone looking?

"Speaking off my wife, she also mentioned that you might be in a bit of a predicament," Mr Weasley went on.

"A predicament, Mr Weasley?" Hermione asked with surprise.

"You seemed to have told Mr Nott that your dance card was full, and seeing you standing here might indicate that it's not," Mr Weasley explained.

"Yes I guess that could be described as a predicament," Hermione answered feeling embarrassed. "I just didn't know what to say, I couldn't imagine dancing with him. His views are absolutely horrible!"

"I know they are, as are most views in this room. But – I did not come here to lecture you for lying to one of my guests, but to offer some assistance in filling that dance card of yours," Mr Weasley said, holding out his hand. "If you'd let me, that is," he added.

Handing him her dance card, Hermione smiled and thanked him, a bit surprised when he didn't just write his name once, but a couple of times before he promptly took her arm and led her to the dance floor.

"As a married man and the host I can afford myself a few liberties," he laughed when he saw her surprised expression.

Bill Weasley proved to be just a good a dancer as his brother was, and for the next two dances he made sure to keep Hermione occupied on the dance floor. When the third dance started, he moved them both from the dance floor and into the company of a few associates of his, introducing Hermione as his sister's friend and his wife's houseguest. It didn't take long before almost half of Hermione's dance card was filled, and while Hermione had been careful not to ask for their views on slavery, the men that Mr Weasley had introduced her to seemed decent enough. Still, Hermione was happy when she could once more find herself in Charles's arms, happy that he hadn't settled for writing his name once either.

"Having a pleasant time?" he asked her when they were dancing once more.

"I think so, yes," Hermione answered.

"You _think_ so? Then I'm not doing a good enough job at entertaining you," he replied with a laugh. "Fleur will be most displeased with me," he added.

"Well, you have been quite busy entertaining Miss Brown, this evening."

Hermione could have bitten off her tongue the moment she spoke the words, and it was sheer willpower that kept her from running away to hide. She sounded petty and jealous and she had absolutely no right to do so. Charles Weasley had never promised her anything, or asked her for anything more than a dance and her company on a few walks. What right did she have to interfere with his choice of dance partner?

"The ever persistent Miss Brown…Yes, she has taken up a rather big part of my evening," Charles replied.

"I'm sorry, I had no right–"

"Never the less you were right," he interrupted her. "Fact is that Miss Brown decided long ago that I would be her future husband. It is about the only opinion she has ever formed on her own and she is not prepared to let it go anytime soon," Charles continued, making Hermione's heart sink. "Unfortunately for Miss Brown, my opinion on the matter is quite the opposite of hers."

"It is?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself, her stomach doing a flip as her heart rose as fast as it had sunk. Looking down on where her hand rested in Charles's, she damned her swift tongue and wondered how many more times she would put her foot in her mouth during the evening.

"I would rather marry her eighty-year-old grandmother and that is quite despite the fact that she is almost as silly as her granddaughter," Charles joked, relieving the tension between them as they both laughed.

Charles didn't let her go at the end of the dance, nor after the end of the next one. Not until they were both out of breath and unable to dance any longer, did he slowly guide them both from the dance floor and to the balcony outside. The night had become dark and a million stars lit the sky as a warm ocean breeze caressed their heated skin.

Laughter and music reached them from the open doors, and the light from the ballroom spilled out onto the balcony creating long shadows that danced and played on the walls and the street below.

"Cold?"

Hermione smiled as she shook her head; too focused on the fact that Charles was still holding her hand to concentrate on actually talking. As if he understood, Charles smiled back at her and stayed quiet as he turned to look out over the street. Almost black, the night still breathed with life. The life of the big oak trees lining the street, the life of the Spanish moss hanging from the branches, the life of the crickets and birds that made music as beautiful and magical as any ever created by man.

It crept upon them slowly – the tension, once more taking its place between them, around them, as tangible as the scent of the night. Still, Hermione didn't mind _this_ tension. It was electrifying, exhilarating and made her heart do summersaults in her chest. With every stolen glance at Charles, her doubts and worries faded a bit more. He was a good man, a man who for some reason accepted her for who she was, who understood her and respected her and made her feel interesting and funny. Somehow, the fears she'd carried seemed to melt away as the tension rose. The way he gently, almost absentmindedly, ran his fingers over her knuckles, the way she caught him looking at her every now and then. She didn't question it anymore. Nor did she questioned him or his intentions, even as he furrowed his eyebrows and bit his lip as if he was trying to decide something important.

"Miss Granger," he started, turning around to face her. "There is something I need to talk to you about, something I need to tell you before…" he halted and took a deep breath. "I can trust you, can't I?" he asked, looking very serious.

"Of course you can, Mr Weasley," Hermione said, both curious and feeling slightly nervous at the seriousness in his expression.

"Good, because what I'm about to tell you–"

"Mr Weasley! There you are. I've hardly seen you all evening!"

She could have screamed loudly in frustration about the interruption, and judging from the look that crossed Charles's face he felt something similar. Still, he turned with a smile on his lips.

"Mr Malfoy, how are you this evening?" he asked taking the other man's hand in his.

"Very well, thank you. Your sister-in-law certainly knows how to make a ball worth visiting," the man, who Hermione could now see was quite tall and blond, with a pointy face and a haughty expression. He looked well-bred but not very nice.

"I'll be sure to let her know you said so," Charles replied.

"Tell me, how did things work out with that young sl–"

"Have you been introduced to Miss Granger yet?" Charles interrupted the blond man while stepping aside so that Hermione stood face to face with him, an action that quite surprised her. Charles Weasley wasn't a man who usually interrupted people. She quickly forgot her initial reaction, however, as Mr Malfoy stepped up with a smile on his face.

"I don't think I had the pleasure, yet. I would have remembered such a pretty face," he said reaching out his hand.

"Mr Malfoy is my nearest neighbour," Charles explained as Mr Malfoy took her hand and brought it to his lips. To Hermione's surprise, Mr Malfoy didn't let go of her hand as fast as he ought to, instead he kept it against his lips for far too long while letting his eyes move to the low neckline of the dress. Charles's voice tensed. "Miss Granger is my sister's closest friend and a guest here for the social season," he said, gritting his teeth slightly while forcing a smile that never reached his eyes.

Insulted, but relieved that it happened to be her left hand and not her right that Mr Malfoy had caught a hold of, Hermione moved her fan to cover her cleavage while trying to remove her hand from Mr Malfoy's grip.

"Interesting," Mr Malfoy said eyeing her from head to toe. "No ring, but still wearing white – very interesting," he said, casting a knowing look at both Hermione and Charles. It was with a sigh of relief that Hermione saw another man find his way out on the balcony – a short-lived feeling, however, when she realised that the man who had joined them was Mr Malfoy's son.

"May I introduce my son, Draco," Mr Malfoy said with a smile. "This here is Miss Granger, from the north I would assume, Mr Weasley's guest," he continued.

"I hope by Mr Weasley you mean my _married_ brother and not me. Miss Granger is an honourable young woman, and is staying here, in the company of my sister," Charles said firmly.

"Well of course!" Mr Malfoy said with a smile that, in Hermione's opinion, did nothing more than prove to her that he had, indeed, meant to insinuate exactly what he had.

Hermione's greeting with the younger Mr Malfoy was, thankfully, quite short, since Miss Parkinson joined them soon afterwards, hanging on to Mr Malfoy's arm as if they were already engaged. Escorted by Charles, Hermione soon returned inside and back to the dance floor. Once more moving together to the music, Hermione started to relax again. All things considered, tonight had been rather pleasant and it was hardly Charles Weasley's fault that he had rude neighbours. With a thought to what had been happening before Mr Malfoy so unfortunately had interrupted them, Hermione looked up.

"You were going to tell me something before we were interrupted," she said softly, trying not to get lost in the way it felt to be in Charles's arms.

"I was, but now I think I'd better wait until we can't be interrupted or overheard. It's too important," he answered with a smile, soon changing the subject completely.

Soon the orchestra started to play another waltz, and Charles's previous engagements forced him to leave her for the company of Miss Brown, though he seemed reluctant to leave her.

"Be aware of the Malfoys," he said quietly. "Neither of them are men you'd want to spend any amount of time with," he added, before he nodded and left her in the hands of Ginny who was sitting down to rest her feet for the moment.

No sooner had Hermione seated herself to talk to Ginny, than they were interrupted again. The voice alone made Hermione wince, and when Mr McLaggen settled down on the chair closest to hers, she wanted nothing more than to get up and leave.

Of course she didn't. It would have been terribly impolite to do so, and Hermione had no desire to reflect badly on her hosts. Instead she forced a smile and tried to make polite conversation with the man, who seemed interested in very few things that didn't involve himself.

After he, for the third time in less than thirty minutes, told her and Ginny about how he once ate a pound of quail eggs as a dare, and followed up with telling them – also for the third time – that maybe it was not a story suitable for ladies, Hermione wanted to scream at him to stop telling it to ladies then. By the time Mr McLaggen started to talk about what an excellent dancer he was, Hermione considered she'd stayed long enough to be polite, and decided to make sure to leave before he asked to see her dance card.

She was, however, too late. The moment she stood up, Mr McLaggen, not only asked for her dance card, but impudently enough reached out and grabbed it from her hand. With a grand smile, he then added his name to each and every slot that hadn't been filled, while going on about how fortunate she was that he had saved so many dances for her.

Helplessly, Hermione looked around her to see if she could spot Charles anywhere, but when she did see him he was still being held up by Miss Brown – she simply had no choice in the matter but to dance with Mr McLaggen.

As she feared, Mr McLaggen wasn't nearly as good a dancer as he thought he was. Instead of concentrating on his own dancing, he concentrated on everyone else's 'mistakes' as he saw them, and as a result he held her too tight, so tight in fact that he nearly lifted her off the floor. After two dances, Hermione fought her way out of his arms, and sent him to get something to drink while making sure to go in the opposite direction, hoping to find Charles or Ginny somewhere in the crowd.

She spotted Ginny soon enough, but she was dancing, and hence proved little help and Charles was no where to be seen. With a mixture of hope to find Charles, and a need for fresh air and somewhere to hide from Mr McLaggen, Hermione headed towards the balcony. When she stepped outside, however, it wasn't Charles she found, but Mr Malfoy and another man with long black greasy hair and a large hooked nose. He didn't look very pleasant, and Hermione was just about to turn around to walk away, when she heard what – or rather whom – they were talking about.

"It was odd, coming from Mr Weasley," Mr Malfoy said leaning against the railing.

"But surely he gave some sort of explanation?" the other man asked. "It wouldn't be like Mr Weasley not to severely punish a slave who escaped," he added.

"And yet he did nothing but put the man in chains. I have seen him do worse to slaves that spilled tea in his lap!" Mr Malfoy said with emphasis.

Hermione gasped, suddenly feeling rather faint. "Surely you are not talking about Mr _Charles_ Weasley?" she asked agitatedly, too upset to be able to stop herself.

The man with the greasy looked at her with cold eyes. "And who are you?" he added suspiciously.

"This is Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy informed. "A friend of Mr Weasley's sister and a guest here at the moment," he added.

"A northerner then?" the other man snarled with disdain.

"Northerner or not, you, sir, did not answer my question," Hermione said firmly.

"Of course we were talking about Mr Charles Weasley! Who else would we be talking about?" the man snorted.

"But–" Hermione started, her head swimming with questions.

"Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy interrupted her. "This is not a matter with which you should bother that pretty little head of yours. Leave it to men who know what they are talking about," he said dismissively.

"Mr Malfoy, I understood very well what you were talking about," Hermione snapped, now starting to get angry. "You were talking about punishing a man for wanting his freedom!"

Mr Malfoy snorted with annoyance, but it was the other man that spoke.

"You northern girls are all alike. You come down here with your high morals and silly ideas about slave rights, when you don't know the first thing about how things work in the real world," he said, contempt dripping from his voice.

"You'll do best to leave the thinking to Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy added.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Hermione asked angrily.

"That you have not the faintest idea of how things work down here in the south!" Mr Malfoy said while stepping closer. "You walk around in your sheltered little world, not knowing the first thing about what it takes to run a cotton plantation. Mr Weasley does know, and you would be wise to trust his judgement on the matter," he finished now standing so close that Hermione could feel the scent coming from him.

Before she had time to respond, Mr Malfoy stepped back and beckoned to the other man to come with him. "Come on Mr Snape, we need to discuss this further," he said.

The man called Mr Snape stepped past her as if she didn't exist. He gave Mr Malfoy a hard pat on the shoulder when he spoke. "I don't think you need to worry about Mr Weasley. He is not one to be lax with his slaves, after all. I'm willing to wager that the slave in question won't even be alive at the end of the month."

The moment they were gone, Hermione slumped back against the wall. She felt nauseated and dizzy. The corset suddenly felt far more constrictive than it had before and she couldn't breathe in anything more than shallow gasps. When she closed her eyes, she could feel the tears burning behind her eyelids. Could she have been this stupid? Could Charles really have fooled her so completely?

It took all the strength she had to pull herself together enough to even stand up straight. Swallowing hard she pushed back tears nd tried to ignore the feeling of being hit hard in the stomach. She couldn't go back inside and pretend as if nothing had happened. Charles still had his name on her dance card, and she couldn't pretend as if nothing was wrong at the moment. She needed time to think, to breathe, to get out of this horrible corset.

With quick strides, Hermione worked her way through the ballroom as fast as she could. When she ran into Mr McLaggen she took her chance by telling him she wasn't feeling well. Eager to play hero, Mr McLaggen quickly escorted her out of the room, cutting down the time it would have taken her to go through everyone on her own quite remarkably. The smile she gave him in return was forced and felt strange, but Hermione was sure he was too caught up in himself to notice.

As fast as she could, Hermione then moved upstairs to her room, remembering to ask a maid to give her excuses and regrets to Mrs Weasley for behaving in such a manner. She wasn't proud of leaving a ball like this, but the moment she closed the door behind her and sank to the floor of her room, Hermione forgot all about form and social rules as hot tears started to fall down her cheeks. This couldn't be true. It wasn't allowed to be. If it was, then Charles Weasley had lied to her for months. She couldn't believe that he had. But if he hadn't been lying to her, then the things Mr Malfoy and that Mr Snape had said made no sense.

Suddenly feeling very tired, Hermione got up from the floor. She needed to think, to work this out, because no matter how she turned it over in her head, Charles Weasley was certainly lying to someone. The only question was to whom.

* * *

A picture of and information about the Planter's Hotel, (today the Dock Street Theatre) can be found A href http/www.cr.nps.gov/NR/travel/charleston/doc.htm here /A .

Josiah Clark Nott was an American physician and surgeon, and writer, writing mostly about surgery, yellow fever and race. He was born in South Carolina and resided later in Alabama. His racial theories were put forth in a book of essays, from 1854, written with George Robins Gliddon. It successfully popularized the polygenist theory, of separate origins of races of humans, where blacks were considered inferior and created to serve as slaves. (Thanks to lj user"celestia" / for the heads up on this one.)


	7. Changes

**Changes**

Charles Weasley didn't like to be nervous. Yet at the moment that was exactly what he was. Pacing to and fro on the pebbled courtyard in front of the large house while waiting for the carriage to show up on the road leading there, he was nervous. He knew it was a bit early to keep a look out for them. The sun was still hugging the tree tops and bathing everything in the type of light that made the white façade of the house look pink and the dew was still clinging to the grass and the tall rosebushes that flanked the stairs leading up to the big porch. Still, Charlie couldn't help himself. There was too much at stake, too much to lose, too many things that hadn't been the same these last few days. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, it was just something that had suddenly changed between them, and he didn't like it one bit.

Things had been progressing perfectly with Miss Granger – or Hermione as he from time to time allowed himself to think of her, if not always out of fear of addressing her in too bold a fashion if he let his guard down completely. At least, he had thought things between them were going tremendously well. With every day he had spent together with her, he had felt them grow closer. With every time they had talked he had grown more convinced of his decision. At the ball, he had made up his mind – he would tell her the truth about what he did. He had been confident in her reaction, and he had known that if she only accepted what he did, he wouldn't hesitate for a moment to ask her to be his. And then everything had changed.

He couldn't understand it. To him, everything had been wonderful. The way they talked, the way it felt to have her in his arms, even if just for a dance, the way she'd been jealous of Miss Brown. Charlie smiled at the memory. She had looked so embarrassed at her own words, so insecure where she had no reason to be. That, if anything, had convinced him that his feelings were returned. So what could possibly have happened from then to when he had seen her the next day – pale and with rings under her eyes from sleeping too little?

He had been so worried when he heard she wasn't feeling well, and had nearly forced Ginny to go and see if she was alright. He probably would have, if Fleur hadn't stopped him. It hadn't been the ending he had planned for the evening at all. Finally staying in the house for the night, he had hoped to get enough alone time with her to finally tell her the truth, and given her reaction, to ask for her hand in marriage.

Charlie sighed and bent down to pick a pebble off the ground, turning the small white stone over in his hand a few times before he threw it as far as he could. Frustration and doubt had been his companions for days now. Things had been perfect – but they weren't perfect any longer. Hermione had been distant and proper, much as she had been on his first visit to her home. She smiled and made polite conversation, but the smiles never reached her eyes, and he had several times caught her staring out into thin air as if deeply emerged in thought. A wall – it was as if someone had erected a wall between them and he couldn't break through it no matter what he did. Maybe if he told her the truth, but then he couldn't, not while the wall was still there, not while he was still in doubt. He had to wait and hope for some sign that this was just in his mind and not in her heart.

Deeply in thought, Charlie hadn't noticed how high the sun had risen on the sky, and so he was surprised when he saw the silhouette of the carriage show up against the trees at the end of the road. It moved fast, he noticed while wondering if fast was too fast or too slow._It's a good thing that she wants to come here, that she wants to see how you live_, he tried to tell himself, taking deep breaths as the carriage finally turned into the courtyard.

With a smile Charlie pushed his doubts to the back of his mind. She was here; she'd chosen to spend the day at his home rather than socialising in the city – that had to mean something. A few quick strides and he was by the carriage door, opening it and holding out his hand to help them out.

Ginny was first out of the carriage, all smiles and excitement as was usual when she came to see him. Always glad to have her around, Charlie smiled at her and embraced her before he turned to help Hermione get out of the carriage. A spark shot through him as he she took his extended hand, and for just a moment – when their eyes first met – Charlie was sure she felt it too. Then she averted her eyes and pulled her hand away and the spark was gone as fast as it had appeared.

Kingsley's voice snapped Charlie out of his thoughts even if he didn't hear what the tall black man said.

"I'm sorry Kingsley, what did you say?" he asked with a smile.

"I was wondering if I should send someone to care for the luggage, Mr Charlie," Kingsley repeated. A bit surprised that there was any luggage to speak of, Charlie looked at the trunk on the carriage and nodded.

"That would probably be for the best," he said with a smile before turning to Ginny and Hermione. Surely luggage must be a good thing, right?

"Planning on changing your clothes often while here, sister dear?" Charlie asked teasingly while offering the two women an arm each, guiding them towards the porch where Hetta had arranged for them to have a late breakfast.

Ginny giggled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Clothes takes space," she informed him. "And there are two of us," she added.

"And what clothes could the two of you possibly bring for a one-day-visit?" Charlie pushed on.

"Dinner dresses for example," Ginny said. "I assume you don't want us to eat in our dusty travel dresses," she added with a laugh.

"Of course not, that would be absolutely horrifying," Charlie grinned, rolling his eyes and smiling, glad she was there.

He laughed when Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, and right then and there the situation didn't feel as bad as they had. Maybe he had been imagining things, after all?

"We have our riding habits with us as well," Ginny informed him as they ascended the stairs to the porch, letting go of his arm and walking straight up to the table. "Oh, Hetta made pound cake! I love her baking!" she exclaimed happily. "Hermione, you just have to try this!"

"You have riding habits with you?" Charlie asked, holding out the chair for Hermione to sit in.

"Of course, Charlie! We want to see the plantation, I've been telling Hermione how beautiful it is," Ginny said eagerly, while taking a big bite of the cake.

"I didn't know you could ride, Miss Granger," Charlie said, trying to push away the nagging feeling that something wasn't right.

"I learned on my Grandfather's farm," Hermione answered in the pleasant yet distant tone of voice she'd adapted over the last few days. "And I do wish to see your plantation, Mr Weasley," she said looking up at him. "I'm particularly interested in seeing your cotton fields," she added, making Charlie nearly choke on his tea.

Collecting himself quickly, Charlie smiled at her. "That's a little unusual, Miss Granger. Most people would want to see the park or the beautiful view over the sea that you have from here. The cotton fields are just fields, not very pretty or exiting at all," he said, wondering what on earth he would do if she insisted. If she saw his fields she would see the workers. Even if he didn't admit it she'd know they were slaves, and given her views and the fact that he still hadn't told her the truth about his business that could never be a good thing.

"The fields are where you make your living, am I right?" Hermione asked casually.

"Well yes, it is, bu–"

"Then that's what I want to see," she interrupted him briskly. "Besides, I've seen plenty of parks in my life, and the sea exists in Boston and Charleston as well. I've never seen a cotton field before. There isn't a problem, is there?" she asked and there was something in her voice that made Charlie wonder if that was the entire truth.

"Of course not. I'll tell Kingsley to get horses out for us later," Charlie said, wishing he knew a safe way out of this. Distantly, he listened to Ginny and Hermione talk to each other while he tried to figure something out.

Shortly after lunch, Charlie had run out of ideas. He'd shown them the house, the garden, the art Fleur insisted on filling his house with – so far not even the library had attracted Hermione's attention long enough to distract her from going out to see the fields. Once Hetta had cleared their table after lunch, Charlie couldn't postpone their outing any longer, and Ginny and Hermione went upstairs to change into their riding habits.

By the time he had arranged for the horses to be saddled and was waiting for Ginny and Hermione to change and return downstairs, Charlie was a nervous wreck. What ever the wall Hermione had erected between them was, it was clearly something that was truly bothering her. He had hoped that a day spent here, without the distractions of others, would bring back the feeling of closeness that they'd had at the ball when he had held her hand, or in Boston when they walked aimlessly up and down the streets just to be alone. She hadn't made any attempts to speak to him alone today. Not one. The times Ginny had tried to pull away and give them their privacy, Hermione had made sure she didn't leave. If he didn't get to be alone with her before they reached the fields today…no he would rather not think about that.

His attention shifted when he heard the girls' voices as they walked outside. It was funny, how women looked when walking in their riding habits. Truth be told, the skirts were far too long to walk in, a fact Charlie assumed was attributed to the wish women had to always cover their legs, even when actually on a horse. Yet as silly as they looked walking in them, Charlie couldn't deny that both Ginny and Hermione looked splendid in their habits. Ginny's he'd seen before, it was the same one she'd worn last time she'd visited him, but even so, the dark blue colour suited her well and the fit was immaculate. It was Hermione's, however, that attracted Charlie's attention the most, as it was almost the exact same shade of rich green as he so often wore himself. Not only so, but dark green velvet trimmings and buttons created a magnificent contrast to the green wool of the rest of the dress, and the tall riding hat, decorated with ribbons of the same green velvet as her dress, only served to add to the impression.

Smiling at them, Charlie showed them both their horses and helped them up in their side-saddles before he mounted his own mare. The early afternoon was perfect for riding. The weather was warm, but the hour and the breeze from the sea today prevented it from being too hot. As they started out in a slow pace things would have been perfect – if only Miss Granger hadn't insisted on the fields as their destination.

Deep in thought, Charlie didn't prove the most talkative companion today, and for some reason neither did Hermione, so Ginny was alone the one to try and carry a conversation. She, too, soon stopped chatting, however, as no one answered her with more than a grunted yes or no. They rode on in silence, each one in their own thoughts.

For Charlie's part, the one worry that occupied his mind was how he was going to stop the catastrophe that was now coming closer with every step of the horse. Even with the slow pace they were keeping, the distance wasn't that great and they would reach the fields far before the workers had wrapped things up and left them empty for the day. On a day like today, they would probably work longer than usual as well. This time of year was busy, and the conditions for working good – no, there was no hope of the fields being empty.

With another glance at Hermione on her horse, Charlie made up his mind. She could say what she wanted, but he was not about to sit idly by and watch a real chance of happiness slip from his grip. Take it or leave it, he would tell her the truth before they reached the fields, and if it was necessary to fool her slightly to get to the position to tell her, then so be it.

He turned away from the path by the next turn, steering them all out into the park instead of towards the fields. If he was going to tell her, he couldn't do it sitting on a horseback. He needed a place where he could talk to her in peace, tell her like it was and see her reaction to the news. The way he saw it, he would either have a new fiancée or two less guests soon. Either way, he would know – and that must be better than this constant worrying, mustn't it?

"I thought we were going to see your fields, Mr Weasley?" Hermione asked, a harshness to her voice that he couldn't remember being there since he first met her in Boston. "This seems to be the way to the ocean," she added, gesturing in front of her where, indeed, the ocean was becoming visible.

"We will visit the fields, Miss Granger," Charlie promised her. "But there is a place I want to show you first. One of my favourite places on the plantation actually. It's a beautiful little hill with the most splendid view. Almost surrounded by trees, and with a small river flanking it on the one side and the ocean on the other – it really can't be explained properly, you just have to see it," Charlie said hoping that his plan would work.

"I'm sure it is lovely, Mr Weasley, but it is afternoon already, will we have time for both?" Hermione pushed on, stubborn enough to nearly make Charlie scream with frustration.

"We will, I promise we will," he answered with a forced smile. "It's just…this is where I come when I need to think, when I need to get away from everyone. It's small and private, and nearly no one but me knows about it. It's special, and I was hoping you'd want to see it," he added.

She didn't answer at first, but the expression on her face softened considerably and Charlie was sure she blushed slightly, even if he couldn't understand why she would blush at the moment. "Oh, I see," she replied softly, and Charlie didn't care why she was blushing anymore. In an instant she had turned more into the Hermione he knew and was starting to fall in love with again, and he wasn't about to complain.

He halted their horses next to the river below the hill. It was a good place for them to rest as there was both grass to graze and water to drink and the trees offered ample shade so they didn't get too hot. Ginny seemed pleased as she smiled at him, and Hermione, too, seemed to appreciate the beauty of the place.

Slightly nervous, Charlie helped Hermione down from her horse – desperately trying not to think about the way it felt to hold her in his arms, or about the tingles that ran through him was her body pressed against his, if just ever so lightly before he let her go. With a deep breath, he forced himself to ignore the sudden urge he had to kiss her, the same urge he'd had at the ball or when he'd said goodbye to her in Boston. This, however, he knew was hardly the time or the place. Maybe after he had told her the truth, depending on her reaction, or maybe later – either way, now was not an option.

Ginny stayed with the horses when Charlie gently guided Hermione up the small hill, always one to understand even his slightest hints and wishes. She was like that with all of six of them, always knowing what they wanted and needed, often before they knew themselves. In some ways, Charlie sometimes felt guilty about caring more for his sister than many of his brothers, but then sometimes he thought all of them did. Ron because she was the closest in age, the one he'd grown up next to for so many years. Fred and George because she, while a girl, could still play pranks as well as either of them – a fact that had brought their mother to tears more times than not, as she worried that her little girl wouldn't grow up to become a lady.

She'd managed to become a lady just fine, Charlie thought, and he guessed that was Percy's favourite thing about her. Not that he could be sure, he'd never understood Percy very well. He knew that Bill liked the feminine side of their sister though, the part that let him spoil her rotten and let his wife dote on her with dresses and ribbons and dances. Charlie, however, liked her way of silently watching them, seeing them and acknowledging their wishes without ever saying a word. He liked that she now stayed with the horses, not because she didn't want to see the hill and its view, but because she somehow knew that Charlie needed to speak to Hermione on his own.

The view was as breathtaking as always when they reached the top of the hill, and Hermione gasped when she saw it. The clearing wasn't big, but it was enough, and the sound of the waves crashing in against the shore beneath them added to the calm and serenity to the place. If ever there were a place more suited for telling someone, possibly the most important thing you ever would tell anyone, then Charlie, at least, couldn't imagine it.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said quietly, letting go of his arm and walking around to have a look from every angle.

"You understand why I wanted to show it to you?" Charlie asked, walking up to her, facing her as he took her hands in his.

With a smile, she nodded. "I do understand," she answered, turning her eyes towards him.

Charlie smiled back, unable to help himself. There was no wall between them now. Whatever it was that had been separating them wasn't there now, and he felt relief wash over him. A comfortable silence spread out between them and Charlie let go of Hermione's hands as she turned back around to watch the sea again. She was beautiful like this, Charlie thought, standing here looking out over the ocean. He only wished he could have let her hair down; just let it fall across her shoulders in the curls he imagined it was.

"I need to talk to you about something," Charlie finally said, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer. Ginny would be waiting and they needed to keep riding, back or to the fields, whichever she wanted. He needed to talk to Hermione about this now, before it was too late. "It's important and something I wanted to talk to you about for quite some time," he added, walking up to her to once more take her hands in his.

She stiffened the moment he touched her. He could feel it in the way she started, see it in the way she squared her shoulders and pushed out her chin. For a moment he faltered and quieted, suddenly uncertain again.

"It's getting late, Mr Weasley," Hermione interrupted him sharply. "If we are to get to the fields before it gets too late we really should go," she added, pulling her hands from his grip and turning to head back down the hill.

"There is plenty of time, I assure you," Charlie said feeling both confused and annoyed. He had just told her he needed to talk to her, that this was important, and she was running away? Why? It made no sense. "Miss Granger–" he tried walking up to her, but she eluded his touch and lifted the hem of her skirt and started to walk.

"What ever it is Mr Weasley, I'm sure it will still be important after we'd seen your fields," she said briskly. "I really do want to see how you make your living, Mr Weasley," she added with a forced smile. "Besides, Ginny has been waiting for far too long, already."

With frustration, Charlie watched her walk away, hurrying as if something had chased her down the hill. Why didn't she want to talk to him? Why did she run away from him like this? He was quickly getting a headache and if he couldn't stop what was happening…no, he couldn't think like that. He needed to find a way – he just didn't know how.

At the bottom, Charlie gathered the horses and helped both Miss Granger and Ginny up into their saddles again. He worked as slowly as he could, hoping for some magical inspiration that would tell him how to fix this – whatever _this_ was.

Maybe it was because he was so deeply submerged in his own thoughts that he didn't noticed, or maybe it was just because things happened too fast, but fact was he didn't see the squirrel as it ran right in front of the hooves of Hermione's horse, and hence he couldn't stop the horse from jumping back and tossing her. It wasn't that violent a jump, and an experienced rider would have had no problem staying on the horse. But Hermione wasn't an experienced rider and with the side-saddle to make holding on even harder, she didn't stand a chance. With a shriek, she fell down the slope and rolled into the river where she to Charlie's alarm, didn't move. Acting on instinct rather than thought, Charlie threw off his jacket and ran down to the river after her.

She was still not moving when he reached her, but she hadn't fallen face first in the water and she was still breathing, a fact which Charlie felt overwhelmingly grateful for. With a firm grip on her unconscious body, Charlie heaved her back on land again, not even noticing his shirt ripping in the process. She was heavier than he would have expected, weighed down by numerous layers of clothing and heavy wool.

"Is she alright?" Ginny called out, running up to them when Charlie laid her gently on the ground.

"She's still breathing," Charlie answered breathlessly, as if saying it would guarantee that she would be alright. "And what is this darn dress made off?" he asked. "Not even wool would be this heavy!"

"Lead weights," Ginny said, tears of worry streaming down her face as she felt Hermione's forehead. "So that the skirt won't fly up and–"

"Lead weights?" Charlie nearly shouted. "Who would be so foolish as to put lead weights in a dress? Do you know what would have happened if I had not been here?" he said, shuddering with fear of the thought as he started to unbutton Hermione's jacket.

"I did not invent the fashion, Charlie!" Ginny snapped back at him. "It's not like most of us wouldn't rather…what do you think you're doing?" she interrupted herself, staring at her brother.

"I'm keeping her from catching pneumonia by getting her out of the wet clothes!" Charlie answered "Seriously, it's not like I've never seen a woman in her undergarments before, Ginny. I'd think you'd be more concerned with her health than her appearance!"

"I am – I just don't think–"

"If you're that worried about propriety then take my jacket and cover her up with it," Charlie snapped, pulling the long green skirt and her heavy petticoat off her and picking her up in his arms.

Ginny acted quickly, rising and getting his jacket to spread over Hermione even before Charlie had stood. He held Hermione tight as he rose, and knowing he would never get her on a horse with him without running the risk of hurting her more, he started to walk back to the house, crossing over the fields of grass that he normally rode around.When they finally could see the house, Hermione's hair had become lose and was falling down in ringlets of unruly wet curls, looking much as Charlie had imagined they would. He couldn't help but to feel guilty at noticing, just as he felt guilty at noticing the way her pale blue chemise had slipped up over her knee revealing a bit of the skin of her thigh.

His jacket had fallen off her somewhere on the hill climb and he wasn't sure how long they had been walking. He rarely walked these distances, but always rode, and right now the only thing he could think about was how pale Hermione looked in his arm and how hot and fevered her body was beginning to feel against his chest. He didn't notice the odd looks from the men on the yard as he carried her up the stairs and into the house, and he hardly saw Eve standing on the porch when he hurried past her, calling out for Hetta the moment he was inside the house.

Gently, Charlie put Hermione down on one of the sofas in the library, pulling a blanket over her to keep her warm when Hetta came into the room.

"She fell, Hetta," he said stroking her hair. "Into the river," he explained, stepping back as Hetta moved to sit by her side. Ginny and Eve had both entered the room and were now looking down on Hermione with the same worried glances as Charlie was. Hetta, however, to Charlie's great relief, seemed to know exactly what needed to be done.

"Eve, get some hot water from the kitchen, also give the order to make some hot tea," she said briskly. "Mr Charlie, you'll need to carry her upstairs into one of the bedrooms, this arrangement won't do, and once that is done you need to get yourself out of those wet clothes and send a note to the doctor in Charleston," she continued.

Charlie nodded, and bent down to pick Hermione up again, cradling her in his arms while ascending the large staircase to the upper floor and one of the rarely used guestrooms. As he placed her on the large four poster bed, he couldn't help but to wonder how someone so vibrant and lively could look so fragile. Brought out of his thoughts, by a hard shove from Hetta, Charlie moved away.

"Now go and get that doctor for her, Mr Charlie," Hetta said firmly. "She's already running a fever," she added.

"Right, I'll do that right away," Charlie said, turning to leave the room.

"You'll better send a note to your brother as well. It looks like Miss Granger will stay here for a few days," she called out after him.

"Wouldn't it be better if they sent a carriage–"

"Mr Charlie, I've tended to sick people more times than I care to remember, and I promise you that the doctor will not approve of such a suggestion. Miss Granger is staying here until she is feeling better, and if you fear that there will be gossip about that fact, I'd suggest you let your sister stay here as a chaperone!" Hetta said firmly, as always knowing his objections and worries.

With one last glance at Hermione, still laying in a faint on the bed, Charlie nodded and left, not bothering with his own wet clothes just yet but hurrying downstairs to write the notes to the doctor and Bill. He could worry about himself later, right now he needed to get the doctor here first, then he needed to send someone out to get the horses by the river – once that was done, he could worry about the state of his clothes.


	8. The Truth?

**The Truth?**

Her foot still hurt. Almost two weeks after she fell off the horse it still hurt when she tried to walk. She knew she should probably be grateful – after all, things could have been a lot worse. She could have been seriously injured rather than suffer a light concussion, a sprained ankle and a fever that lasted for a couple of days. She probably would have been dangerously hurt, if Charles hadn't acted as quickly as he had, although she'd rather forget that acting quickly had entailed him getting her undressed. Not since she was a child had anyone – not even her father – seen her in her undergarments, and Charles had not only seen her, but been the one to undress her. There mere thought was mortifying. Still, she couldn't deny that he'd been the perfect gentleman about it, allowing her to pretend it had never happened in the first place and purposely staying away from her room while she was still bedridden. She was quite sure she wouldn't have been able to handle facing him so soon after she found out, especially not while dressed in only her nightgown. Besides, such a visit would not have been proper, and Charles had been very proper around her since she'd been confined to his house.

She was relieved, however, when the fever lifted and she could, with Charles help, move downstairs into the library. She'd been highly embarrassed when he first had entered her room to carry her downstairs, but grateful nonetheless. And she had to admit, her housedress did feel a lot more comfortable when the corset wasn't tied as tight and when the heavy petticoats wasn't there to fill it up. It was terribly long without the petticoats, but then again, it wasn't as if she could walk around so that didn't really matter. Charles's taste in books had proven excellent, and he had been ever so kind to read them aloud to her when her concussion was bad. He still read aloud to her when he had the time, even if she had been able to do it for herself for several days now.

He had a wonderful voice, she'd noticed, listening to him read. Deep and rich and he never rushed the text like so many did, but took his time. When he was reading, she could almost forget her worries, almost allow herself to push her doubts to the back of her mind and pretend she already knew they weren't true. That was the worst part of it, though, she didn't know if they were or weren't. It wasn't that she thought they were true; she was almost convinced that they weren't. After all, there were so many signs of the contrary. The way he allowed Eve to make mistake after mistake without even raising his voice at her, the way his servants called him not Mr Weasley, or even Mr Charles, but Mr Charlie – the same nickname used by his family and friends, or the way Hetta had such a big influence over him. None of that fitted with the image of a cruel slave owner. Besides Charles had seemed so honest when he talked about his views on slavery, and he had said already the second time they met that he sometimes pretended to agree with his neighbours. Still, pretending to agree wasn't the same as convincing them he had slaves of his own, and Mr Malfoy had said he'd _seen_ him be horrible to slaves. And Mr Snape had thought he would kill a man merely for escaping. How could anyone fool people into thinking things like that? And how could people see things that weren't there.

Hermione sighed and let the book she was holding fall to her lap. There was no real need to pretend to read when she was the only one in the room, after all. In the house almost, since Charles and Ginny were in town for the day. Not that it was the first time she pretended to read when she wasn't. Sometimes she did it just to avoid talking to Charles, when she sensed he wanted to come back to that important thing he had tried to talk to her about before, at the ball and again on the hill overlooking the sea. She couldn't allow him to bring it up again. Not yet, anyway. There were too many things she didn't know, that she needed to know before she could trust him enough to listen. So she pretended to be completely caught up in her books. Either that or she feigned a headache, which would always have the desired effect. Charles would grow worried about her, apologising for not leaving her alone when he really should have, and call in Hetta just to make sure she was alright. She knew it was probably wrong, but she just couldn't have whatever conversation it was he wanted to have right now. Not because she wasn't curious about what he wanted to talk to her about, on the contrary, she was, but she was also scared. Actually, scared was an understatement, terrified was far more accurate.

After all, there really couldn't be all that many things he wanted to discuss in that manner, and she had thought about any and all possibilities more times than she cared to admit. They way she saw it, it was most likely one of two things he wanted to talk to her about – and neither was something she could face at the moment.

One fear was that he was trying to confess to lying to her. As much as she hated to think about the possibility, there was too much riding on this for her not to. She had seen the expression in his face on the balcony and on the hill, just as she'd seen it when he closed in on the subject here in the library. It was tense, nervous and worried – as if he was afraid of her reaction. If he were, as was a possibility, trying to confess to having slaves, then such an expression would be suitable indeed. And if a confession was the case, she knew that she could never live with it. It didn't matter if he needed to keep appearances up or was forced for some other reason – if living in the South meant you _had_ to have slaves to survive, then any righteous person would move away. It wasn't as if Charles didn't have a choice as to where to live. He had chosen Charleston, and if that choice entailed him having slaves, then she, at least, could not live with it. Still she could not believe that he could have, or would have slaves. She was a smart woman, she would have noticed if he'd lied to her. Then again, she couldn't be absolutely sure, and that reason alone was why the other option, scared her even more, if that were possible.

What if he wanted to propose marriage? It wasn't such an unreasonable assumption, was it? Ginny seemed to be convinced that he would, and so did Charles's brother and sister-in-law. Mr Weasley had himself pointed out his wife's choice of colour of the ball dress, Ginny had done the same, and in truth even Mr Malfoy had commented on it. And she couldn't deny that she'd thought about the possibility herself. That she'd carried the hope that he might – or the fear, since she'd heard Mr Malfoy and Mr Snape talking.

Fact was that she couldn't consider a marriage proposal at the moment. She needed to know the truth first. If Mr Malfoy and Mr Snape were correct, then there wasn't any way she could ever marry Charles. And yet if they were wrong and she had said no – or even just expressed her doubts – everything could be lost. She could only imagine what it would feel like if Charles told her he doubted everything she'd told him about herself. No! She couldn't talk to him about it, and until she knew the truth for _sure_, she couldn't allow him to tell her, or ask her, whatever it was he had on his mind. She needed to know first. If she did, then she could make an informed decision. If it was – as she was almost convinced of – a complete fabrication or delusion on Mr Malfoy and Mr Snape's part, then she would have no problems with whatever Charlie wanted to tell her – or ask her. She hoped it was ask her. Truth be told she couldn't dream of meeting anyone she wanted to be asked by more than she wanted to be asked by Charles Weasley. But she needed to know first, before anything went further she needed to know if Charles was everything he said he was. And she needed to know very soon – before Charles decided to ignore her reading or her headaches and go ahead with telling her or asking her what he wanted anyway.

The solution appeared to her when she cast a look through the window, as she had so many times during the last few days, watching the busy pace on the courtyard outside. She didn't know why she came up with the idea, but suddenly she knew what she had to do. She needed to know the truth, and while she was still limping and having trouble walking, there was nothing to stop her from getting around on a horse. As long as she was careful, she was sure she'd be alright. She had been before that squirrel scared her horse after all, and this time she didn't plan on going near any trees.

Listening carefully to make certain that Hetta wasn't close, Hermione slowly got up, biting her lower lip hard to keep herself from crying out in pain as she put weight on her foot. The pain wasn't impossible to live with, however, and once she had got used to it Hermione slowly made her way to the door, peering out to make sure no one was around to see her.

Once out of the house, Hermione straightened up and made sure she didn't show the pain every step caused. The limp couldn't be helped, but Hermione still tried to look as unaffected as she could. She scanned the courtyard and quickly located the big black man that tended to Charles's horses, and with as large strides as she could afford herself without yielding to the pain, Hermione walked over to him.

"It's Kingsley, am I right?" she asked.

He looked surprised when he turned around, but he still nodded as he answered. "Yes Miss, it is," he said in a voice that was deep and seemed fitting for a man like himself.

"Well Kingsley, I was hoping that you could help me," Hermione said with a smile. "I have been confined to the house for far too long, and I need to move about a bit, yet my leg is still not well enough for me to walk, so I thought I'd take a ride instead. Will you get a horse ready for me?" she asked.

Kingsley frowned for a moment. "No, Miss, I won't," he replied, surprising her immensely. Truth be told Hermione wasn't all that used to being told no.

"And why not?" she asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"Because Mr Charlie wouldn't want me to, Miss," Kingsley said earnestly. "You fell of a horse, Miss, I can't give you another to go out on without company. Mr Charlie would be very angry with me if something happened to you," he said.

"It was only an accident. I didn't just fall of the horse you know, I was thrown!" Hermione insisted heatedly.

"I'm sorry, Miss, I can't and I won't," he insisted just as firmly.

"Then send someone with me," Hermione said.

"What?"

"If you're worried about me riding out alone, then send someone with me, that way I couldn't get hurt," she said.

"You're assuming that I can spare a person, Miss, I can't," Kingsley said calmly. "And even if I could, I wouldn't without Mr Charlie's permission. Besides, why don't you ask Mr Charlie to go with you when he comes back from town, Miss?" he asked.

With a sigh, Hermione had to admit defeat. She couldn't tell him she was sneaking out, because then he'd never get her the horse. "Maybe I'll do that, Kingsley," she said with a forced smile, watching as he smiled, nodded politely at her and walked away.

Inwardly using words that her parents wouldn't approve of her even knowing, Hermione wondered what on earth she should do now. It was clear as day that Kingsley was a dead end. He didn't seem the type of person that broke orders – loyal and efficient. She should have been impressed, but right now she couldn't get passed feeling annoyed and disappointed.

"Excuse me, Miss, can I help you in any way?"

The question surprised her, and in truth she hadn't heard anyone coming from behind her. As she turned around and saw the face of a young black man, holing a horse by the halter-strap, she couldn't help but to smile.

"Actually yes you could," she said softly.

"Anything, Miss," the boy said happily, apparently eager to please.

Hermione smiled wider as she reached up and stroked the horse the boy was holding. "Well I was talking to Kingsley about taking a little ride, but apparently he didn't have the time to prepare a horse for me, so he said I had to wait. You wouldn't be able to get a horse ready for me?" she asked, trying not to think about the fact that she wasn't just stretching the truth at the moment, but flat out lying.

The boy, however, only gave her a wide white smile. "Of course I can do that for you, Miss," he said, growing a bit in height at being asked. "Just stay here and you'll have your horse as fast as I can master, Miss," he said, being rewarded with another smile from Hermione.

The boy took off even before she had time to thank him, and Hermione certainly didn't have to wait long for him to return with a horse ready to ride. Nervously glancing around her for any sign of Kingsley or Charles, Hermione smiled at the boy as he reached her.

"Thank you," she said happily, making the boy, if possible, smile even wider. It was obvious he wasn't very used to having such a prestigious task, and Hermione was rather sure this was possibly the first time he'd ever got a horse ready for anyone.

Pushing the nervousness of that thought behind her, Hermione let the young man help her up in her saddle, something that hurt her foot far more than she had imagined it would. Fact was, she was quite relieved when she was finally seated and her poor ankle could rest again. Gathering up the reins, Hermione thanked the boy once more before urging the horse forward. She had no desire to stay in the courtyard any longer than possible and she knew exactly what she wanted to see. Trouble only was where to find it.

She started along the same path that Charles had led them on almost two weeks ago. It could be completely wrong, of course, but for some reason she thought he'd at least started out in the right direction. Question only was when he had deviated from the right path to take them to the hill. Her pace slowed as her nervousness about being on a horse again grew stronger; she still went on, determined to find out the truth once and for all. She wanted things between her and Charles to be the way they had, but they never could be as long as she still had doubts – no matter how faint they were.

She ignored the crossroad where Charles had turned when she reached it, and continued straight ahead, thinking that surely this had been the place where he'd changed his mind. Then again, deviating from the path she had been on before, also meant she didn't have a clue what to expect. She could very well get lost, or enter someone else's grounds or… No, she mustn't think like that. This was for both their sake and she needed to find out the truth – whatever the risk could be.

The forest had been clearly visible during her entire ride, but as she continued down the path she had chosen, the forest became ever more distant, a fact she decided must be a good sign. There were still a lot of bushes and trees, close to the path, but the dense forest could only be seen at the horizon by now.

She heard their singing before she actually could see the field, hidden as it was from her view by a large bush-like tree she didn't know the name of. When she rode up past the tree and turned the horse around, all she could see was miles of brownish shrubs covered with white balls of cotton. They were arranged in straight lines, and in the paths that the lines formed were those responsible for the song – men, women and children, all black, all carrying large baskets to contain the cotton they picked – most of them were women; some of the women were pregnant. For a moment Hermione wondered if the pregnant women were allowed to marry their children's fathers. She distinctly remembered reading somewhere that slaves weren't allowed to marry. Then again, if what she heard about slave conditions were right, chances were that these women didn't even know who the father of their child was.

With tears blurring her vision, Hermione rode on, no longer knowing or caring where she rode. The songs from the slaves wrapped around her like a cloud, and in the back of her mind she remembered hearing about these songs – songs about a place far away from here, about rivers and places of freedom. The women sang, and in a way they seemed happy to sing. But how could they possibly be happy if they didn't have their freedom?

Deep in her heart she tried to rationalize what she saw. Maybe they weren't slaves? Maybe they were just workers, being paid fair wages for their efforts? But then she looked at the scene playing out in front of her, at the children and the women and the two men walking about in the field inspecting the work, and she knew that they weren't free, they couldn't possibly be, could they? Still, how could she know? Maybe, just maybe…

She didn't notice that her horse took her from the field, that it followed a new path, not until she heard voices being spoken and saw the sheds behind some trees. They were rough and not painted, and lined up on a dirt path that led through what could only be described as a sort of village. Only in a village the houses would be houses and not sheds. In a village the road wouldn't be just where people walked. Most importantly, in a village there wouldn't be a high fence that separated it from everything around it save for the path that led to the fields. This wasn't a village – this was a confinement for slaves, with open gates perhaps, but a confinement nonetheless.

"Miss? Are you alright, miss?" a small child with bare feet and chest asked her, tilting his head to the side. "You look a bit pale, Miss," he added.

It was like being woken from a dream, hearing the child's voice. A horrible nightmare that left you sweating and panting until you realised that it was just a dream. Only this wasn't just a dream – this was fact. As clear and tangible as any she could have ever asked for. She had found out the truth – and the truth was hideous.

Nauseous and heartbroken and with tears running down her face, Hermione turned her horse around, urging it on as fast as she dared, letting it find its own way home as she wasn't sure of the way herself. She knew there was no room for pretending anymore – Charles had lied to her. Every single word he'd spoken against slavery had been a complete fabrication. He wasn't a man who respected and shared her views. He was a man who had lied and deceived her to get his way, who didn't hesitate to tell her he hated slavery while keeping slaves himself. How could he possibly claim to be better than the Notts and the Malfoys if he behaved the same way they did?

With every step of the horse, she felt her anger rise. It wasn't fair – Charles had had no right to fool her like he had. He had made her fall in love with him, with an image of him that wasn't at all true. He was a horrible man and if she ever laid eyes on him again it would be too soon. Of one thing she was absolutely sure, no matter how much her foot hurt when she got back on the ground again, she was going to leave this place today! There was not a chance in the world that she would stay long enough for Charles Weasley to work his way into her heart with his lies ever again. She may have been fooled once, but she was not about to let it happen twice!

The horse was trotting along quickly now, and the house was growing clearer in her view with every step it took. From the path she could see the courtyard, filled with people and with several horses standing ready and waiting. His red hair looked like a flame in the afternoon sun, and when her horse approached the courtyard, he left the side of the horse where he stood and ran in her direction. Hermione could feel herself growing tenser in the saddle; she hadn't expected to be forced to face him so soon. But then again, the sooner she had told him exactly what was on her mind, the sooner she could have her things packed and be on her way, making sure she'd never have to look at Charles Weasley again!


	9. Panicking

**Panicking**

Charlie was on the verge of panicking. He had a knot in his stomach growing larger every minute he had to wait for Kingsley to get the horses ready for them, and the pressure on his chest was making it hard for him to breathe.

He'd returned from Charleston less than a half hour ago, only to find the library empty and Hermione gone from the house. He couldn't understand what had got into her. Why would she risk getting on a horse again, so soon after her accident? And if she had felt such a strong urge to get out of the house, why hadn't she just waited for him to return? He would have gladly taken her in one of the smaller carriages, where there wouldn't have been any risk of her being hurt again.

Silently swearing to himself, he wished he hadn't taken so long to finish up in town. He would have been home a lot earlier if he hadn't stopped to buy the book presently lying thrown on the sofa of the library where he left it when he realised Hermione wasn't there. If only he'd acted faster. Anything could happen in half an hour and he had wasted valuable time searching for Hermione in her room and others, not asking Hetta where she was until he didn't know where to look any longer. He hadn't even begun to actually worry until he'd realised that Hetta didn't know where Hermione and had thought she was still in the library.

The thought of her getting up and walking on her own hadn't even struck him until then, and still it had taken him some time to figure out what she was up to and how she had been able to manage it. It had seemed so unlikely that she would have asked for a horse in a first place, and even more unlikely that she would have pressed on after Kingsley had told her no. The boy who'd given her the horse should feel lucky that Kingsley had been the one yelling at him for not checking with him first. Personally, Charlie felt like strangling the young man, or at least beating him to a bloody pulp. He had only ever raised his hand against a slave once, and then only because he had to in order to protect her from Malfoy's wrath after she spilled scalding hot tea in his lap. Yet if anything happened to Hermione now, he would strongly advise Kingsley to keep the young man responsible for it as far away from him as possible, or he might actually make use of the whip he so often carried with him.

Oh, this was insane! What was taking Kingsley so long? Hermione had already been out for almost two hours, more than enough time for something to happen. What if she'd been thrown off her horse again and was lying hurt somewhere? What if she was lost? She didn't know her way around the plantation. What in the world was keeping Kingsley? Couldn't he understand how important this was?

With a shout to Kingsley to get a move on, Charlie dragged his hand through his hair. He couldn't remember ever being this worried before, not even when he'd seen Hermione fall of her horse. At least then he'd been with her, he'd been able to make sure she was alright and carry her home. Now she could be anywhere, and there was no guarantee that he would find her in time if something had happened. She wasn't a very good rider after all, and the stallion she was on preferred a fast pace and had a strong will of his own. He could throw her off so easily, and what was to say that they would find her in time if he had?

Cold sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck and the pressure across his chest was turning his breaths into shallow gasps by the time Kingsley finally brought out the horses and a couple of men to accompany them on the search. With large strides, Charlie walked up to the horses lining up and grabbed the reins of one of them.

"We'll take the path towards the fields first," he said tersely to the men gathering around him, thinking that the fields must be what Hermione wanted to see and trying to push away the thoughts of what she would find if she really did get there. This was not the time and place to think about those things, and the most important thing now was to find her and make sure she was alright.

"Mr Charlie! Look!"

On hearing Kingsley's voice call out, Charlie turned around, feeling a wave of relief flow over him as he saw Hermione and the horse approaching. Quickly letting go of his own horse, Charlie ran across the courtyard to meet her, not noticing the tears running down her cheeks until she got close. Confusion and worry battling within him, Charlie stepped up and grabbed the reins of the trotting horse, making it stop before he stepped up to Hermione who was foolishly enough trying to dismount on her own, resulting in nothing but tangled fabric as her skirt got caught in the saddle.

"Here, let me help you. Tell me what's wrong, are you hurt in any way?" he asked, fighting the urge to yell at her and ask her how she could be foolish enough to go out on her own like this. He was not her husband and as ill-advised as her actions had been he had no right to ask such a question. In all honesty, he doubted she would tolerate such a question even from someone who was her husband, and he was not in any hurry to find out her reaction to yelling at her like a little girl, even if right now that was exactly what he wanted to do.

She froze when he grabbed her waist, stiffening in his arms as he held her and pushing away from him so fast when he set her down that she nearly stumbled and fell when she put weight on her injured foot. Instinctively, Charlie stepped up to grab her and hold her steady, as he had done for almost a week helping her down the stairs to the library.

The slap that hit his cheek was hard and surprising, but not nearly as painful as the look of disgust in her eyes when she looked at him.

"Do not touch me!" she snapped, jerking her arm free even though such a move must hurt in her state. "How dare you ask me if I'm hurt? If I am, it is _your_ doing, Mr Weasley!" she said with anger.

He didn't need to ask to know what was wrong. There could really only be one reason for her words. There was only one thing she could have seen to make her react so strongly. His insides squirmed with alarm, he only wished he could convince her to listen. He must. There simply was no alternative, he couldn't let this ruin what he had so long tried to find.

"Please, let me expl–" he tried. Only Hermione was not prepared to listen.

"You are a liar, Mr Weasley! A liar and a slave owner and a despicable man! I cannot believe I actually believed everything you told me!"

"Miss Granger, I meant every word I ever said, you must know that. I–"

"No, I do not know that!" Hermione yelled. "I saw them, Mr Weasley. I saw them with my own two eyes. Will you tell me I'm wrong? That you do not buy people as if they were just another merchandise, only to let them live in sheds and lock them up behind iron gates?" she asked, apparently not caring that everyone in the courtyard could hear her.

"That gate is never locked and those sheds are more than anyone offers around here, and as hard it must be for you to see it now, I have my reasons. If you would just listen to me–" Charlie insisted, starting to feel both annoyed and frustrated at Hermione's refusal to listen to what he had to say.

"What does it matter that the gate isn't locked? They're still slaves, aren't they? Or will you try to fool me into believing that they're not?" Hermione asked, her voice high-pitched and her face wet with tears.

"I won't lie to you, but you have to hear me out–" Charlie said calmly, hoping against hope that she'd see sense.

"I don't _have to_ do anything, Mr Weasley! What I _will_ do is make my way upstairs to pack my belongings. If you have a shred of decency in you, you'll arrange for a carriage to be ready to take me to Charleston," Hermione insisted firmly.

"Please, don't leave without listening to me," Charlie pleaded, knowing that if he couldn't get her attention, all would be lost and he would lose what he had looked for and wanted for longer than even he had known.

"I've heard enough, Mr Weasley, and more importantly, I've seen enough!" Hermione replied, disgust clear in her voice. "I will return to Boston as fast as possible and if I never see you again it will still be far too soon!" she finished, turning on the spot and starting to walk inside, her limp barely slowing down her pace.

With desperation Charlie watched her head towards the house, her limp telling him how much it must hurt her to walk without support. Her skirt dragged behind her as she did not bother lifting it up and her strains of her hair had broken out of their confinements from the pace of her ride, reminding him of their first meeting, of that first lock of hair that had struggled for freedom. Not until now, did he see that she was wearing the same light blue dress that she had that day. It seemed different, without the normal petticoats underneath, but it was doubtlessly the same one.

Realisation that he would actually lose the chance to make this right if he allowed her to move inside the house made him act. In only a few strides, he had caught up with her, grabbing her arm as he spun her around.

It hadn't been his intention that she would lose her balance and fall, or that he would reach around her waist to catch her when she did. But whatever his intentions had been, they vanished from his mind when he felt her body pressed against his own and saw her face so close to his. Her eyes were red and her face puffy from her crying, and somehow he was glad to see that she was at least as emotionally distraught by this situation as he would be if he was forced to let her go.

He saw her lips moving even before she spoke, and he didn't need to listen to know that he didn't want to hear what she had to say. He needed to make her listen, to pay attention to him, to be quiet; and so he bent down and claimed her mouth with his, quietening her with the pressure of his lips. The kiss was harsh and demanding and nothing like he had imagined their first kiss to be – but then this was not a situation he had ever believed, or wished, to be in when he first kissed her. Yet in all its imperfection, it was more than he even imagined and his only regret was that he would have to let her go.

When he did, he half, if not fully, expected her to slap him again for taking such liberties. But she didn't. Nor did she speak. She just stared at him, her lips swollen from the kiss, her breath shallow and fast. Fighting the urge to kiss her again, Charlie decided to make the most of what he was sure was only a temporary silence, and before she had any time to protest against his actions, Charlie bent down and lifted her up in his arms, barely hearing the sniggers and laughs from the men crowding the courtyard.

Hermione yelped in protest to his actions, but this time he was not unprepared, this time he knew what he wanted and was not prepared to let go without a fight. If she wanted to leave, that was her choice, but she would, at least, know what she was really leaving. He would not lose her because she thought he had lied, because she thought he'd deceived her when really he hadn't. This was too important, _she_ was too important, to be given up quite so easily.


	10. Revelations

**Revelations**

He didn't listen when she firmly told him to put her down, nor did he let her go when she tried to wiggle her way out of his grip, but held her tighter as he ascended the stairs and carried her inside. He put her down on the sofa in the library, surprisingly gently when considering that nothing had been gentle about him since he grabbed her and kissed her.

He kissed her! Her lips still felt swollen and the taste of the kiss lingered as did the scent that she had learnt to associate with Charles. The kiss hadn't been anything like she had imagined her first kiss to be. It had been crude and rough and there hadn't been a trace of the gentle softness that she had so many times read about. And still, it had taken her breath away and left her far more speechless than she could ever remember being. Confused, she wished she had not liked it as much as she had. Charles Weasley was a slave owner and a liar, she reminded herself, and no kiss could ever change that. No matter how little breath was left in her when he let her go.

Annoyed, she noticed that she had raised her hand to her lips, as if wanting to make sure the kiss actually had happened. Her hand shook slightly when she forced it down into her lap. As much as she wanted the truth to be something other than it was, she couldn't let this go, she couldn't just forget who he was and what he had done.

"Do I need your permission to leave, or do you only order your slaves around?" she spat, knowing that her words sounded bitter. Then again, she was both bitter and angry – bitter for allowing herself to be so utterly fooled, and angry at him for fooling her. It was with not a small amount of pleasure that she saw him flinch at the tone of her voice.

"There are things you don't understand, that you do not know yet," he said, his voice forcibly calm, as if he was holding back in order to explain something very difficult.

Hermione stared furiously at him. How dared he have the nerve to talk to her like that? Like she was a child, someone less knowing than others! She had been talked to like that too many times in her life, by too many men, and it was not something she appreciated – not from anyone and certainly not from a man like Charles Weasley! How could she ever have thought he was different?

"I understand what I need to understand, Mr Weasley!" she interrupted him, not able to stop her voice from growing shrill as the anger inside her rose. "And I do not appreciate you talking to me as if I do not. I am not a fool, although you seem to have believed so, and nothing you say can change my views. Slavery is immoral and should be illegal – and no matter what you think your reasons are, you are a horrible man for keeping them."

"Miss Granger, I asked you politely to listen to me!"

"And I told you I will not! Nothing you say could ever change my views. You cannot 'teach' me to accept something my heart knows is wrong–"

"Miss Granger! If you do not stop talking on your own, I will make you stop!" Charles cut her off. His voice forceful and filled with built up frustration as he sat down next to her.

It took only a moment for Hermione to catch on to what he was referring and when she did her gaze immediately moved to his lips, almost as if her eyes had a will of their own. Irked and embarrassed, Hermione turned her head away, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.

Her eyes fell on the book lying on the seat next to her by chance, its red leather cover still smooth and untouched, drawing her attention to it. More out of a wish to do something than anything else, she reached out and touched it, fingering the bindings and the tracing the letters of the title.

"I bought that today," Charles said. "It's your favourite, is it not?" he asked.

Hermione shot him an annoyed look. "Buying me things isn't going to change the way I feel about slavery, Mr Weasley. Or change the fact that you tried to deceive me."

Charles sighed and from the corner in her eye she could see him running his hand through his hair. "I'll make you a deal," he then said. "Listen to what I have to say before you make up your mind. If you still want to leave after that, I'll get Hetta to pack for you and I'll have Kingsley prepare a carriage to take you back to Charleston. I give you my word, that if you still think I am a horrible person, then I'll stay away from you. But please, hear me out first. If you don't I will not give up until you have, even if I have to follow you to Boston to get you to listen to me."

"It would seem you leave me little choice," Hermione said tersely.

"Will you agree?" Charles insisted.

"I can't see the good it will do, but since I have no alternative, yes I'll agree," Hermione answered, still fingering the book beside her.

"Do you remember, a couple of days ago when you saw that book on my shelf?" Charles asked.

Confused, Hermione looked up. _He couldn't possibly be serious, could he? Did he really think that a conversation about a book would change her focus from the fact that he kept slaves? That he had lied to her for months and had apparently no respect for her views what so ever?_

"I fail to see the importance," she replied, annoyed.

"Then humour me, Miss Granger!" Charles said firmly, getting up from the sofa to pace the room.

With a sigh, Hermione nodded. "Yes I remember," she said.

"Then you also remember, that I picked out another book to read that day. Not the one you said was your favourite, but another." He waited for her to nod again. "You didn't find that a bit odd?" he then asked.

"I assumed that you didn't like the book that much or that you weren't in the mood to read it," Hermione answered, tiredly, not understanding at all why this had any type of relevance to her changing her mind about leaving. "But yes, I did find it slightly odd," she admitted, when he didn't immediately respond.

"The reason I didn't read it is because I didn't have the book," Charles said, making her if possible even more confused.

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked annoyed. "I can see the back of it from here!" she continued, gesturing to the shelf that carried a copy of the book she had read so many times in her life.

Charles smiled, as if she'd just said something that pleased him. She couldn't possibly understand what that would be, and understood even less when he walked up to the shelf and pulled out the book.

Only the book didn't leave the shelf, and the action was followed by a low clicking sound, as if someone had turned a lock. With decisiveness, Charles pushed the dark mahogany bookcase, and to Hermione's surprised it swung open like a door, revealing a dark corridor and a staircase leading down to the cellar of the house.

"What is that?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"_That_, is what I have been trying to talk to you about since the ball," Charles said calmly, walking over to the sofa to once more sit down next to her. "_That_, also happens to be the reason why what you saw today isn't the true picture of who I am. As for me deceiving you, I never did. Hid things from you, certainly, I can't deny that, but I didn't lie. I never lied to you."

"What I saw–" Hermione started, shuddering when she thought of the image of the women working in the fields and the sheds she had seen them live in, and pushing the nagging feeling that, maybe, Charles hadn't really lied to her to the back of her mind. She couldn't forget what she had seen, and she was not to be made a fool of!

"Was a front," Charles interrupted her. "_That_ was the lie. What I told you never was. I do not believe in slavery–"

"You keep slaves!" Hermione cut in, her voice forceful. She would not let his voice and gentle manner mislead her again, it just wasn't worth the pain and anguish.

"Only because I can help them," Charles answered.

"And how would being locked up in sheds help them?" Hermione asked sarcastically.

"They are _not_ locked up," Charles said firmly. "The gates are there because it would look odd if they weren't, but they are never locked."

"They still can't leave whenever they want, can they?" Hermione replied.

"No of course they can't, they'd be killed if they were found! People like Mr Malfoy or Mr Nott, or most other men in the area for that matter, would never acknowledge their right for freedom!" Charles said, as if he, himself, had nothing to do with slavery.

Hermione snorted. He really had some cheek to sit here talking like this. Charles, however, ignored her and continued to speak.

"I know you doubt me right now, but I do believe they have the right to be free. It's just that, as long as they live here, in the south, they will never have that freedom," he said calmly.

"So keeping them under lock and key is your way of helping them to freedom?" Hermione replied wryly.

"Actually yes, it is," Charles replied. "Through this," he added and gestured towards the hidden door, "and through the help of people who are prepared to take a lot of risks for what they believe is right, there are a number of slaves who gain freedom each year," he continued.

"Explain," Hermione said, glancing over at the dark doorway, still wary, but starting to wonder if maybe she, after all, had been a bit hasty in her judgement, her heart somersaulting at the mere thought.

Charles, however, started looking more nervous again. Suddenly getting up from the sofa, he paced the room and ran his hand through his hair in the way she had seen him do before when he got anxious. When Hermione started to wonder if he might just change his mind about what ever it was he wanted to tell her, he turned back around.

"I smuggle slaves, Miss Granger. I pretend to either sell them or kill them, when I am, in truth, smuggling them to New York, where Fred and George take care of them. They are kept safe in the back of one of my brothers' warehouses until they can be found employment and a place to live," he said rapidly, barely breathing while he spoke. "So you see," he continued, in a much calmer pace, "that while I have not been completely honest with you, I have not lied to you either. I _do_ believe that slaves have the right to be free. I just go about it a bit differently, that's all," he finished.

Hermione was stunned. Out of all the things she thought he'd tell her, this wasn't it. Letting her gaze wander from him to the secret door, she tried to think of something to say. Her attempts were futile as her mind wouldn't stop spinning.

On the one hand, there was this incredible feeling of relief that washed over her, as if a great weight was lifted from her shoulders making breathing remarkably easy all of a sudden. It made sense after all, his attempts to try and tell her something he so obviously found important. The reason Hetta and Kingsley and even Eve seemed so very fond of him. Even Mr Malfoy's and Mr Snape's discussion about his behaviour around slaves could be explained if this was true.

But then there was that little voice of doubt in her mind – what if he _wasn't_ telling the truth? What if he was just deceiving her? She had after all seen the so called village _his_ slaves lived in. No matter what he said, there _had_ been gates, and the houses had been nothing but sheds.

"If this is true, why do you let them live like that?" she asked, quietly hoping that she would find his answer satisfactory.

When Charles looked at her, he smiled before he moved to sit on the sofa next to her again.

"Those 'sheds' as you call them have real floors, and real beds and aren't half as ill-built as they look. I would love to give the people who work for me more, but if those houses did not look like sheds… I need people to believe that I wouldn't hesitate to kill a man for no reason at all. If I can't maintain that image, then I can't smuggle slaves out either," he said.

"But why this way? Why not work for the freedom of all slaves instead of a chosen few?" Hermione asked.

"Because, while politicians like my brother are busy arguing pros and cons, people here are suffering and dying! Women, like Hetta, get separated from their children, or are forced to watch them be beaten or worked to death. Women like Eve are raped, people like Kingsley killed for learning to read – I could go on," Charlie said passionately.

"You think things are moving too slowly," Hermione said, wondering how many times she'd thought the same thing herself.

"I do," Charlie confirmed. "I am not a patient man, and I'm not a politician. If I can help people, actually _do_ something, then I can't sit idly by just talking about it. It's not who I am!" he said quietly.

"But if no one talks about it there won't be any change at all," Hermione argued.

"I know that, and I do appreciate the fact that others are talking about it. But that's not me. I act, I can't be any different," Charlie said softly, watching her closely before he spoke again. "I am well aware of the fact that what I do here is illegal, and I do understand if a woman like yourself, would have a hard time accepting that," he said, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"I won't pretend that I haven't thought about the future a lot lately, and I don't think I'm being too presumptuous if I suggest that you have entertained such thoughts, as well," he said, making the colour rise in Hermione's cheeks as she remembered just how many times that type of thought had crossed her mind over the last few weeks – months even.

"I have," she answered, glancing down at her hands, wondering if this might be what she had been waiting for all that time. If he would actually ask, like so many seemed to have been convinced of and she had secretly hoped for.

"In all honesty, living this life, this lie, isn't easy, and it does demand a lot of effort. Of behaving the way you are expected to rather than the way you want to, of being able to hold your tongue even when those around you behave and act abhorrently," Charlie said, making Hermione's heart sink, his words not being either what she had expected or hoped for.

"I guess the latter isn't one of my strong suits," she replied, feeling disappointment rise as the meaning of the words sank in and became clear. She wasn't good enough. Charles may like her outspokenness, but it wasn't a trait he was looking for in a wife. She hadn't been able to hold her tongue when speaking to Mr Malfoy and Mr Snape. She would have spoken up in front of Mr Nott had Ginny and Mrs Weasley not stopped her. Charles was looking for a wife to keep a secret, and the only thing she managed to prove while here was that she was not the person to choose.

"I guess what I'm asking, is would you be willing to learn?" Charlie asked, reaching out and taking her hands in his.

Surprised, Hermione looked up at him, wondering if she truly understood what he meant. This was hardly the type of proposal of marriage she had expected to get, and yet it couldn't be anything else, could it?

"Mr Weasley…" she started without really knowing what to answer.

"My offer still stands, if you want it. If you do not want to stay, if you do not want my company, I will arrange for you to go to Charleston, and will not bother you again," Charles said, still holding her hands in his.

"And if I do not feel the need to return to Charleston as pressingly as I did?" Hermione asked hesitantly, wondering if it was even proper to stay after this.

"I'd be delighted to have you here, for as long as I could persuade you to stay," Charles answered with a slight smile.

Her heart positively dancing in her chest, Hermione returned his smile. "You asked if I was willing to learn," she then said, watching their hands together, his so much bigger than hers.

"Would you be?" he asked.

"I guess that is dependant on the teacher, and the reason for teaching," she answered.

"And would this, would _I_, be enough of a reason for trying?" Charles asked, his voice sounding more nervous than she would have expected.

"It would," she answered, her voice so faint that she herself could barely hear it. Charles, however, heard her just fine, and a smile spread across his face as he squeezed her hands tight.

"Does that mean that I have your approval to write to your father and ask for his permission to marry you?" he asked, raising his hand to brush away a stray lock of hair from her face.

Suddenly feeling elated, Hermione laughed at the formality of his question. So far today, nothing had been formal. Charles had even kissed her, in public no less, without so much as a breath of consent from her father. In truth, Hermione was rather sure that Charles would never have obtained a permission to do _that_ even if he had asked for it. With a smile she met his gaze.

"No, _Charles_, you may not," she said, revelling as much in the use of his name as in the surprised and confused look on his face. "Any such letter will be written by the both of us together," she added with a smile, yelping only a little when Charles leaned in and quietened her with his lips.

-the end-


End file.
